


Three of Fell

by TheTacticianAlchemist



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: AU, Alternate Timeline, Blood and Violence, F/M, Gore, Includes Shadows of Valentia lore, Masked Morgan, Robin has her memories, contains references to other games, evil lucina, third timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTacticianAlchemist/pseuds/TheTacticianAlchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan's parents are dead. Lucina has failed, fallen, and crumbled into a mockery of her former self. Morgan rushes to a third timeline, desperate to keep his parents from dying, but he is alone, and Lucina has fallen victim to the bidding of Grima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Three of Fell! Unfortunately, updates will probably be sporadic.  
> I tend to write as I go; I have the backstory all together, but the future is kinda...planned as I go. Sorry; that's just how I write. (Well, I know how I want to end it, the only problem is getting there, lol.)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy. There will be major violence/death in this, to warn you. I haven't decided yet, but there may end up being smut/lemons in here (I'll put a warning at the beginning notes and up the rating to explicit? I dunno, I haven't used AO3 for multichaptered things yet).

Morgan had few memories after coming from the future to the past. When his family had found him, among the Risen-infested ruins, Lucina had embraced him.

  
“I was so worried, Morgan,” she’d said. “There were Risen when we went through the Outrealm Gate. I was so sure you’d been…”

  
They’d attributed his memory loss to the attack, some sort of accident that occurred in the time-stream. He had no idea whether his thoughts were lost to time, or if they were stuck somewhere in his head. He remembered his mother the most, his sister the second, and his father the least. Everyone else was vaguely familiar blurs.

  
In the times to come, Morgan would be searching more and more through his head for any traces of his past. But the only things that he could find to comfort him in the hard times were his family’s smiles.

An especially precious, if hazy, memory was this:

  
Lucina, so young herself, had wiped away his tears and ruffled his hair. “Shh, Morgan, you’ll be all right.”

  
He’d sniffed. Even now he still doesn’t remember what he’d been crying about. “Luci…”

  
“Shh, it’s fine.” She’d smiled brightly at him. “I’m here. Leave everything to your older sister. I’ll protect you.”

 

* * *

 

  
He runs through what feels like liquid tar; time around him has almost stilled. He grunts, the sound coming out like an echo, and the hilt of his father's sword at his side slowly, but not gently, bumps back against his waist. He hears noises around him, muffled calls of Risen. All at once he sees the light ahead of him, and he reaches out, his coat gliding through the time-stream.

  
His fingers brush the regular flow of time, and an invisible force jerks him into the third world.

  
The wind whips against his ears and coat, through his hair and the slits in his mask as he plummets toward the ground. He puts a hand on the tome tucked in his belt and points his other hand downward.

  
" _Elwind_!"

  
Twin blades of greenish air expel toward the ground, slowing his descent, and he lands. The forest floor is soft, but the impact still jars him; he can feel his teeth rattle, and he's thankful he didn't bite off his own tongue by accident.

  
Like in the second world, part of the forest has lit ablaze, an unfortunate side effect of the spell's immense power. He stands to his full height and draws Falchion, turning his head this way and that to look and listen.

  
The roar of the flames hides the sound of footsteps, and the voice that he hears nearly brings him to tears.

  
"Where did you get that sword?"

  
He spins and finds his father standing behind him. The man is slightly younger than the one he knows; though defined, Chrom's features aren't as sharp as they will be. The light scars on the prince's body are far fewer than they will be. Still, Chrom's stern but confused expression, the intensity of his blue eyes, is the same as ever.

  
More than anything, he wants to fall into his father's arms and relieve the heavy burden on his own shoulders. He wants to cry into his father's cape, like he can just barely remember doing as a child, and let his parents deal with everything. He wants to feel warmth from his father's skin, not the cold.

  
But the moment passes when, out of the haze of flames, a slim figure appears behind Chrom. Light glints off the woman's tiara and red fire burns in her eyes. A mockery of the first-world’s Falchion reflects the forest's inferno on its gold-and-black blade as she lifts it.

  
" _Rexcalibur_!"

  
He aims the wind spell at his sister. Chrom's eyes widen at the coming onslaught and he rolls out of the way just in time. Lucina tries to do the same, but by the time it reaches her, the magic has spread far; it catches her shoulder and sends her spinning. By the time she's retained her balance, he's sped at her, driving the second Falchion toward her. She blocks the attack with her own blade at the last moment and pushes him backward, though he maintains his footing and takes a ready stance.

  
"Defeat the Risen!" he calls back to Chrom, not daring to look over his shoulder. "Get out of here!"

  
If his father answers, he doesn't hear him, because now Lucina is speaking.

  
"Little Brother," she coos, but her voice is rougher. It seems to match her distorted appearance perfectly—her skin has become a pale shade, like porcelain, both unsettling and beautiful. Magic tattoos have blossomed on her face, matching the Mark of Grima that has appeared in her right eye. Depending on the angle of light, her eyes appear deep purple, or deep red, or a flashing crimson that mimics the Risen.

  
"Little Brother _Morgan_ ," she says again, but this time she lashes out with the Falchion-mockery, Erebus, and he barely manages to block with the second-world Falchion. The weapon is unbreakable, but it vibrates in his grip from her force. She whirls and attacks, attacks, almost too fast for him even though each move is just like the ones she's used with him in sparring.

  
"Lucina!" he says, almost screeching. He has to refrain from saying sister—if he is to win this war, he knows linking himself to her in such a way might ruin his chances for gaining his father's support if he is heard.

  
Lucina is now nothing more than an enemy, can be nothing but an enemy, and he is not the enemy. But still, he can't help but try to bring her back. Even after all she’s done.

"Lucina!" he pleads. Since her attacks have begun, he has not made a countermove. "Please, Lucina, please stop this!"

  
The once-princess of Ylisse slows, but only hardly. "How futile," she says. "When your mother and father are dead, tiny one."

  
Morgan has only heard those words spoken once by his sister, in an admission that had left her almost sobbing. To hear the words spoken in such a cold, cruel way just reinforces everything he knows, that he has no way of pulling her from Grima's controlling grip. But he cannot stop trying.

  
"Please, Lucina!" He strikes at her and she meets his blade with her own, and he pushes hard on her to remain in a deadlock. His arms tremble as he looks into her eyes with his own through the mask. "Please, don't let Grima control you like this! _You're strong enough to fight this!_ "

  
Lucina scowls, not in irritation, but condescension. "You have no power to stop us."

  
Morgan almost reels back in shock. "'Us'?!"

  
She laughs, far from her joyous, if rare, melody. Her voice is rough and mocking. "Worry not for now. My master has not entered this world yet. You would already be dead. But this way, at least," she says, mustering her strength and pushing him away from her, "I have my chance to slaughter you!"

  
Morgan is immediately on the defensive, but he can't deflect her forward jab in enough time—Erebus’s edge slides almost imperceptibly across the side of his neck, where his mother's spell-protected coat doesn't reach.

  
Lucina pulls back at once, but he knows that it isn't any act of mercy that she didn't hack his head off then and there. She's playing with him.

She darts back in, jabbing and slicing, and he's forced to dodge and block. He doesn't consider himself half the swordsman that his sister is, and in the second world he never came close to defeating their father in a spar. As soon as possible he needs to gain his distance to be the most effective, but there's no way Lucina will let him get away easily.

  
" _Stop_!"

  
The tip of Erebus knocks into the side of his mask, sending the object tumbling to the ground just as Chrom steps in and fights back Lucina, ignorant of her heritage in another world, another time. At once Morgan is aware that they are surrounded by people—maybe not close enough to see his face—but he raises the cowl of his robe to hide his appearance before sending a quick wind spell to send his distracted sister flying.

  
Lucina rolls to the side and Chrom slices after her, just narrowly missing her arm. Morgan sends another, more powerful elwind to stall her; she takes the brunt of the magic attack but still meets Chrom's sword with her own. Chrom knows enough not to fight toe-to-toe with her, leaving Morgan as wide a target area as he can manage. Lucina catches on quickly and darts toward the Ylissean prince, but from another angle a burst of a thunder spell speeds at Lucina and hits her. Chrom takes the advantage and dives forward, but Lucina hits the flat of his blade with her own; his attack puts a gouge in her side. Though it's small, her clothes around the wound darken immediately and she hisses.

  
Chrom barely has time to pull back away from her retaliatory strike. Lucina doesn't rush after him, though. Instead, she rises to her full height; the flames set aglow her blue hair and clothes with a brilliant orange hue and highlights the paleness of her skin. The fire almost seems to be coming from Erebus itself.

  
Lucina stares at Chrom, then turns her gaze to the white-haired, tome-wielding woman emerging from the trees. Lucina watches her other-world mother for a long moment and a smile slides onto her tattooed face. Robin's eyes grow wide and her left hand instinctively goes to grab her right one, even though her fingerless gloves cover her skin.

  
Lucina chuckles and sheathes her sword. She turns to look at her brother. She says nothing for a long moment, but her expression and her eyes say all he needs to know.

  
"I shall spare you for tonight," she concedes, but nothing about her tone admits defeat. She sounds like a bored but cruel puppet-master, lazily deciding to save her playthings for another day rather than cutting their strings. "But I will not be so kindly at our next meeting."

  
She turns and leaves, seeming to disappear into the flames, and for all that has happened Morgan finds himself hoping that all she's doing is going to check the army supplies or find someone to spar with.

  
Chrom and Robin remain fixated on Lucina's departure. Morgan shakes his head and turns back toward where his mask dropped. He picks up the blue, butterfly-shaped headpiece. Slightly sideways down the middle is a darker line of blue marking where the mask had once been broken, but since then mended with magic. Morgan places the mask on his face but doesn't lower his cowl.

  
He hears footsteps and a hand grabs his shoulder. His mother's grip is hard, but he doesn't blame her for it.

  
"Who are you?!" she demands, trying to turn him around. His eyes water immediately at the sound of her voice, and he has to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. He doesn't dare turn around to face her.

  
"…You may call me Mark," he concedes.

  
"Oh, really?" she says. "The famous tactician of old?"

  
Of course she would know the name. That was why he chose it. Still, the fact that she knows such a fact so early on nags at his mind.

  
"Whether or not it is my real name does not matter," Morgan replies.

  
Robin is silent, and after a moment she pulls back her hand.

  
Then he realizes. Grima hasn’t yet come to this world.

  
_She remembers._

  
"Who are you?"

  
Morgan keeps silent.

  
He hears more footsteps, and then his father is speaking.

  
"Why are there two Falchions?" Chrom's voice is confused, but not harsh like earlier. He sounds...kind, almost. As if he's afraid of scaring Morgan away.

  
Morgan realizes that he has yet to sheathe Falchion. He does so, slowly, gathering his thoughts. Tactician though he may be, it's hard to not think of how much he wants to embrace his parents.

  
Finally, he turns to them. It was a bad idea, because now he wants to cry at the lack of recognition in their eyes.

  
"Explaining in the open is not the best course of action," he explains. "But if you must know anything right now, know this: That woman…Lucina…cannot be trusted. She will kill you if she has the chance. But," he adds, turning more toward his mother, and the woman's eyes fill with dread. "She is only a taste of what is to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2017.5.4: edited the chapter for grammar/plot.
> 
> 2017.7.1: Added in a picture commissioned from @ticcytx. ISN'T SHE GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL please go commission ticcy, she's fantastic


	2. ii.

_first_ and  _third_

“Chrom, we have to do _something_.”

“Well, what do you propose we do?”

“I…dunno…”

The voice wafted into Robin’s ears, rousing her from her sleep. She let out a sleepy groan and opened her eyes.

Above her were two strangers.

One was a girl, roughly fifteen. She was short, thin, her blonde hair pulled into pigtails. She wore a yellow dress and held a healing staff in one hand.

The other was a young man. He wore some sort of odd—yet strangely fitting—blue outfit with only one sleeve, which his white cape draped over. His bare arm revealed a birthmark on his shoulder. His blue hair and eyes reflected the sunlight, and he smiled when he saw Robin stir.

“I see you’re awake now,” he said.

The girl smiled as well. “Hey, there.”

Robin blinked. “Um…”

The man chuckled a little. “There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know. Here, give me your hand.”

Robin hesitated, staring at the gloved hand he offered her. But then he stretched his fingers just a little further, and Robin smiled in return. She placed her palm in his, and he helped her stand.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked.

Robin nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.” He eyes caught sight of a third person, a brown-haired man wearing armor, but he kept silent as he watched her.

“Sleeping out here all by yourself is dangerous, you know,” the blue-haired man said. “Especially with how Plegian bandits have been crossing the border. It’s best to travel with others.”

Robin blinked. “I’m in Ylisse?”

The brown-haired man shifted, his eyes narrowing. “You mean to say that you are not from this country?”

“Ah…” Robin scratched the back of her head. These guys were _those_ kinds of people, then. At least, the uptight man seemed to be. “I’m Plegian, yes.”

“Frederick, that is no matter,” the young man said before the armor-clad man could speak. But his voice still took on a warning tone when he added, “So long as you are just a Plegian _citizen_ , mind you. Or a refugee.”

“I’m just a traveler,” Robin said quickly. “Though I suppose 'refugee' fits... I mean—I _am_ a mage, but I’m not planning on pulling out a thunder tome on anyone.”

He laughed. “I’m glad. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Robin.”

“I’m Chrom,” he said, smiling. “This is my sister, Lissa. And the grump over there is Frederick the Wary.”

“Wary is a good thing to be,” Robin admitted, but Frederick didn’t seem impressed in the slightest.

“Milord, please,” he said, worried and exasperated. “We need to be cautious.”

“Oh, fine.” Chrom put his hands on his hips. “Robin, you’re Plegian, but are you a Plegian spy?”

Robin blinked at him. “No?”

“See, Frederick?”

“Milord—!”

“Oh, I’m kidding.” He looked toward Robin again. “You’re all alone, right? You might as well travel with us. We can keep an eye on you, then. If it turns out you’re an enemy, we’ll figure it out. If it turns out you’re not, well, then you’ll have a far lower chance of being mugged while you’re sleeping. Where are you headed?”

* * *

 

The walk to Ylisstol is much longer than Robin would’ve liked, but at least her hands aren’t bound like Mark’s. It was the only way Frederick would allow the mysterious young man to accompany them to the capital. The knight holds onto Mark’s spell book, and Chrom has Falchion’s copy wrapped in his cape and strapped to his back. Mark is only left wearing his black, tattered coat and his mask; Frederick had wanted to take those too, but Chrom had insisted otherwise, to return the favor for saving his life.

Frederick walks directly behind Mark. He’s holding his silver lance pointed between Mark’s shoulder blades. At such a close distance, Robin doesn’t doubt that Frederick could kill the boy in mere seconds. Frederick would do it, too, if he thought he would save the Halidom.

Virion and Sully, members of Chrom’s band of Shepherds, joined them out in the woods; but when they arrive at the gates of the city, they hurry ahead to the barracks, Sully insistent that she give her steed a rest. They take Frederick’s mare with them.

Robin’s never been to such a big city before. She’s been to plenty of places, but western Plegia tends to have villages or small towns, or the occasional dusty city. But Ylisstol is grand, warm but not hot, with shiny cobblestone streets, protective walls, and a castle set on the hill in the middle of the area. Smiling, laughing families crowd the streets; in the distance, people are cheering as a procession heads back toward the palace.

“Is that Exalt Emmeryn?” Robin says as they walk along. “Your sister?” She was surprised to learn of her new companions’ heritage, but with how much Frederick fussed over them, it makes sense.

Chrom nods as Lissa says, “The best sister anyone could ever have.” She turns to Mark; the whole journey, she kept glancing at him curiously. “Mark, have you ever been to Ylisstol?”

Mark pulls his lips back, into a thin line. “This is my birthplace,” he says evenly, speaking for one of the first times on their journey.

“I suppose we won’t find a simple ‘Mark’ in the birth records,” Frederick grumbles.

The crowd that greeted Emmeryn is long gone by the time they reach the castle gates. Robin can’t help but gawk at the large, tall walls surrounding the fortress. They’re grand, far grander than anything she’s ever seen. It feels almost wrong for her to be about to go inside.

The guards nod to Frederick and bow to their prince and princess. Chrom motions for a few of the men to come over.

"Take this man to the north end sitting room,” he instructs. “I don’t want him uncomfortable in a cell. Make sure he is fed. But do not let him out of your sight, or near any sort of weapon.”

The guards both let out an “Understood” and grab Mark by the arms. He complies easily with their leading him; but before he goes, he glances back at Robin.

Robin blinks, unease coursing through her veins, and her brows furrow together.

The Mark of Grima itches under her fingerless glove, but she ignores the sensation as best as she can.

The guards leave with Mark, and Chrom runs a hand through his hair. “I guess the best thing to do would be to go catch Emm up on everything….” He gives Robin a helpless smile. “Shall we, Tactician?”

Robin tries to force away the dark feeling in her stomach. “Of course.”

Chrom leads them into the palace, and immediately Robin feels too… _dirty_. The marble floors are covered with a lush red carpet; the high walls are covered with gorgeous paintings and intricate tapestries wherever there aren’t impressive windows to let in light. Lissa giggles when she notices Robin’s awe, and the embarrassed tactician snaps her jaw shut. Chrom notices and smiles like Lissa did and points out who’s who on the walls—a great-grandfather, distant aunt, even the Hero-King Marth.

Robin nearly stops short at the sight of the portrait of the ancient king and his wife, Caeda. Even as a Plegian she’s heard of Marth’s legendary exploits—but more than that, something Robin can’t put a name on causes emotion to well up inside her. She can’t even figure out the feeling. Unease? …Familiarity?

That can’t be right.

They continue on and come into a well-decorated room, furnished with two couches, a low table, and a desk beside the window. A blonde woman sits at the desk, listening attentively to a woman standing with her arms behind her back.

The blonde smiles when she sees her visitors, and Robin blinks when she sees that the same Brand on Chrom’s shoulder is on her forehead. “Chrom, Lissa.” She stands and her grace seems almost otherworldly. “How fared your trip to the south?”

“Well, we dealt with the bandits,” Chrom says. “But a lot of other things happened, to say the least.”

“Emm, you wouldn’t believe it,” Lissa moans tiredly.

The woman—Exalt Emmeryn—looks to the newcomer. “Why don’t you explain what happened after you introduce your new companion to me?”

“Oh, right.” Chrom looks a bit sheepish about forgetting, but he recovers quickly. “Emm, this is Robin. She’s going to be the Shepherds’ new tactician. She’s amazing on the battlefield.”

Robin would have rolled her eyes at the praise if she weren’t in front of the Ylissean ruler. “Y-your Grace,” she stammers, bowing her head.

Emmeryn smiles and holds up a hand. “Peace, Robin. I’m glad my brother has found such faith in you. I trust you will do well, though please do not misunderstand me when I say I hope your skills are not needed.”

“Your Grace,” Frederick starts, and Robin’s stomach feels like ice. “I must inform you that Robin is of Plegian heritage.”

“Frederick!” Chrom snaps, then turns to his sister. “Emm, Robin helped us wipe out Plegian bandits—they had hostages, for the gods’ sakes.”

“Heritage matters not to me,” Emmeryn says.

“But Your Grace.” For the first time, the other woman speaks. “Please reconsider. I’m afraid I must ask you to emphasize _some_ caution, what with the Plegian activity on and within our own borders.”

Emmeryn considers the words carefully, then turns back to Robin. “Well, then… What have you to say for yourself?”

Robin resists the urge to play with her hands—a nervous tick she’s always had. “I am Plegian. I was born there, raised there—my clothing is Plegian and my skin is a few shades darker than yours. However… I think birthplace matters not. I want to help whoever I can, however I can.

“The innocent people of Plegia deserve peace, and their king is not giving it to them. I left Plegia to escape that chaos, but now that I have this opportunity, I cannot sit idly by and watch while more and more die from Gangrel’s whims.”

“You speak quite ill of your country’s king,” Emmeryn notes.

Robin shakes her head. “I have misspoken. He is no king.”

Emmeryn only nods, a sharp light seeming to emit from her eyes. “I welcome you, Tactician.”

()()()

After explaining what happened, Emmeryn leaves to visit Mark by herself. Chrom and Frederick go to delve more into investigating Mark’s weapons. Robin wants to join them, but Lissa grabs her hand and drags her to the Shepherds’ barracks, and Chrom backs up his sister by saying, “This is a good chance to meet everyone you’ll be working with, Robin, before anything might happen. We’ll catch you up on everything later.”

Lissa introduces Robin to a number of people—Maribelle, Sumia, Stahl, Vaike, Miriel, and once again, Virion and Sully are there (and there’s an odd moment where Robin thinks she sees someone in armor, but when she looks again, no one’s there). There’s a flurry of good-natured conversation, but even so, Robin finds her mind wandering off.

Just who _are_ Mark and Lucina? That portal in the sky—where did it come from? What were those undead creatures? Why does Mark wear a mask? 

The image that haunts her is of the tattoos on Lucina’s face—the Mark of Grima in Lucina’s right eye, the same pattern that rests hidden under her glove.

For the first time, Robin wonders if she made the right choice in parting ways with her mother.

She shakes her head, dispelling the thought.

The cavalier—Stahl—catches sight of her actions. “Something wrong?” He tips his head, his bed-hair shifting a little. He smiles.

“Oh, nothing.” Robin waves her hand. “A lot’s happened, is all.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure you’ll be a great tactician, and addition to the Shepherds.”

He says it so earnestly that Robin smiles. “I hope so, Stahl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/17/2017 Edited (two years after the original post of this chapter, wow).


	3. iii.

_first_

Lucina stood amongst the rest of the children—no, they were teenagers, but they felt like children. Each and every one of them parentless, lost, vulnerable for Grima to swoop down from above them to take them in a Hellish rapture.

Thanks to Severa, Lucina’s hair hung short. She gripped the mask Gerome gave her in her left hand; her right rested on Falchion’s hilt.

“Is everyone ready?” she asked, looking at each of her companions in turn.

Nah’s expression was determined. Gerome, who stood beside her, likewise nodded, and Minerva shifted restlessly.

“Let’s get on with this already,” Kjelle said, and Cynthia voiced her agreement. At once, the rest of the group let out cheers and calls of encouragement, pumping fists into the air and rattling armor.

Emotion welled up in Lucina’s chest. She wanted to cry at how loyal and strong her friends were. Even in this dark hell, Naga had blessed her.

Morgan grinned at his sister. “Let’s get going. I want to see Mother, and Father too!”

“As do I.” Lucina smiled warmly at him. She took a breath, and stood up straighter. “Thank you all, for being so brave. I am truly humbled for this chance to fight alongside you. It may take time…but I am sure that our power combined can change the past. Be ready, my friends. We still have to ascend to the Outrealm Gate.”

The second generation of Shepherds all cheered once more, and Lucina finally placed her new mask over her face, lest she not have enough time before they entered the Gate. She looked pointedly at her younger brother. He rolled his eyes—one marked with the Brand—and reached into his pocket and pulled out a rounded mask to put over his face. She wished he would wear something other than the coat their mother had made him before she and Chrom died in the battle against Validar, but Morgan had absolutely refused to rid himself of the coat each time Lucina had asked him to.

She wanted to prevent causing too much of a disturbance in the timeline. She didn’t want her parents to see her telltale eye before they were married (she didn’t want them to see it at all, for that matter). Morgan agreed with that sentiment, at least, but refused to abandon the coat. It was too precious to him, and Lucina had too soft a heart to take it away by force.

The Ylissean princess unsheathed Falchion and held it high above her head. “Let’s move out!”

She turned and began to ascend the long, winding stairs that led up the mountain toward the Outrealm Gate. The evening sun began to set the sky ablaze, and Lucina couldn’t help but wonder if the optical illusion of fire was a bad omen.

Cynthia and Gerome took to their mounts and set off to patrol the skies, along with Nah in her dragon form. Every so often one would fly overhead and give a signal that the area was Risen-free, and that it was safe to continue moving.

Morgan hurried to catch up with his sister. “I can’t wait to see the past,” he said, smiling, and part of Lucina wanted to chuckle.

“Don’t get caught up in looking at all the different things,” she warned gently.  “We have a mission.”

“I know _that_ ,” he said. He was silent for a moment. “I’ll be happy to see Mother and Father again.”

“They aren’t—” Lucina hesitated. “They aren’t _really_ our parents, Morgan.”

He frowned. “Maybe, but maybe not.”

Lucina didn’t respond.

“Hey.” Morgan gave her a gentle push. “No matter what, I’m at least here for you, Sis.” He grinned.

Somehow, his reassurance gave her equal parts hope and equal parts dread. “Thank you, Morgan.”

With every step they took, Lucina felt more and more unease mount inside her chest, despite the high spirits of her friends around her. She began to understand why Gerome wore his mask all the time.

Finally, they came to the peak. Lucina paused, staring at the large, ruinous temple that housed the Outrealm Gate.

It was far grander than what she’d read—at least, it had once been. No roof remained, only rubble and half-high walls. A thick, tall stone archway stood at the other end of the destroyed temple, embedded into the surrounding walls. The rock seemed black, as the archway was empty and outlined against the red sky, and the sun setting into the ocean seemed to be an image captured in a frame.

Mere moments later, the Gate began to shimmer. The inner area of the frame turned opaque, blocking out the scene behind it with a gorgeous aquamarine hue. Pinpricks of white light appeared, all moving toward the center, almost like thousands of stars shooting across the sky.

Naga had prepared the way for them.

 _“Come, children,”_ a serene voice said, but there was no visible body to attach it to. _“Hurry.”_

Lucina momentarily forgot her unease, and led the way into the ruins.

And that was when Minerva screeched.

“Move!” Lucina yelled as purplish dust rose up from the ground, materializing into Risen. At once she led the company forward, brandishing Falchion and slicing through whatever monsters got in her way. All around her, her friends and family fought with steel and tooth and nail, ferociously, for the Risen seemed to be forming exponentially faster and faster.

A dark silhouette appeared in the sky over the sea, and icy fear clutched Lucina’s heart.

At that moment, she reached the Outrealm Gate and turned, tearing apart Risen in the process. “Get inside _now_! Now!”

Laurent rushed into the portal, just managing to warm Lucina to be safe before the magic swallowed him. Noire followed soon after, screeching the entire way about _blood_ and _thunder_ and _heathens_ as she shot arrow after arrow at the Risen around them.

“Sister!” Morgan appeared at her side to stave off an attack meant for her head as Nah and Yarne went to the past as well. “Watch out!”

“Get out of here!” Lucina snapped. If she weren’t preoccupied with giving Brady and Inigo a chance to escape, she would’ve pushed him into the Gate.

Morgan sent out a thunder spell to halt the Risen pursuing Severa, Owain, and Kjelle as the trio vanished. “I’m not leaving without you!”

“Gods damn it, Morgan!” she cried, and when Gerome and Cynthia finally flew on their mounts into the past, she turned to him. “Lea—!”

He’d turned toward her as well, but moments too soon.

Lucina’s eyes widened.

A Risen’s swing went wild, and it hit Morgan’s head with the blunt side of an axe.

“ _MORGAN!”_

He fell to the side, the black mask falling from his face, and though Lucina tried to reach out to him, he passed through the Outrealm Gate.

Lucina ran after him.

()()()

Lucina jolts awake, and she grits her teeth at the pain in her side. The wound is healing quickly compared to a mere human’s due to the awakened Fell Blood in her veins, but it still hurts.

Regardless, she forces herself to stand and continue on her way.

“Where is that disgusting man?” she hisses, only half-aware of her words.

Plegia is not a land completely devoid of life. There are deserts, yes, and wastelands, but towards the west stand many forests. In the right places, crops grow, even if rain doesn’t come east often. Yet Plegia’s people are resolute in the dry heat, in the lack of water and moisture. Given the conditions, it’s no surprise the factions that rose in Plegia exist as they do now: The Grimleal that control the country with fear, in the shadows behind King Gangrel, to be precise.

Plegia’s people are also stronger than they appear, and in the future-past made quite the meal at the Dragon’s Table, as they will again in the past-future.

Lucina once scorned her mother’s heritage in dark magic, even before she had any knowledge of her blood—for even in the first world, those around Lucina never knew that Robin’s Plegian skin held the Fell Blood. Such matters were kept secret between her mother and father and perhaps their most trusted companions. Yet now she disdains the opposite, the Brand of the Exalt that rests dimly still in her left eye. Now, the whispers pounding through her veins tell her to stride proudly across Plegia, proudly among the Grimleal, to spread the wastes of Grima over the whole world for her master.

But for now, she limps, and keeps off the roads for discretion, though she wouldn’t hesitate to attack if anyone came too close.

She walks for hours—she’s been walking for hours, heedless of the hot sun and the landscape that turns more and more desolate. Some force tugs on her like she’s attached to a string, and she doesn’t know where it’s leading her until she comes to an outcropping of rock overlooking a small village.

At one end sits a Grimleal church.

At this point the sky turns toward twilight, and Lucina breathes in the scent of the air. She hisses at the pain still in her side, then turns and walks along the outcropping toward lower ground. She looks back toward the church and doesn’t miss the crows gliding on the wind, black against the sky.


	4. iv.

_second_

"Morgan."

A chill went up his spine. He turned his head and smiled at his sister, trying to hide his nervousness. "Yes?"

Lucina put her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed and matched the stern frown on her lips. "You know what I'm about to say, don't you?"

"Um..." Morgan looked to the objects in his hands, then tried to win Lucina's mercy by flashing another smile. "Be sure to wash Falchion after I'm done cutting this apple?"

His sister stomped forward and snatched the Divine Blade from his hand. " _Don't_ use Falchion to cut apples in the first place, you dolt!"

Morgan jumped; the half-peeled apple in his hand fell to the ground. "S-sorry, Sister! I'm sorry!"

Lucina's fury abated at the sight of her brother looking so afraid, but she still grimaced. "You had best be more than just sorry. This sword is a national treasure of Ylisse and a final memento of our father. Would you use the last earthly remembrance of your dead father to cut  _fruit_? You've shamed the weapon that built your very homeland!"

Morgan quickly hid the frown that threatened to show on his face. He could barely remember the father that Lucina had known so well in her youth; he felt much more comfortable and knowledgeable about this world's Chrom. But as for the rest of what his sister had said…he hadn't even thought about it.

"Well, you've seen for yourself how big the apple is," he said easily, trying to push his thoughts away. He hated dwelling on things like his sister often did. "And with no other knives around… B-besides, I've barely ever touched the thing before. I dunno… I got curious."

Lucina paused.

"So, um, a-are you…?" He studied her face and realized his efforts had been for naught. "Yeah, you're mad."

"You've never held Falchion before?"

The question surprised him. He blinked. "Not really, no. In the future, you always kept it by your side. And since we've been back here, I've maybe moved it from tent to tent once or twice."

Lucina was frowning. "Then we don't know if you have the potential to wield it."

"It takes a special person to use it?"

She nodded. "I see there is much you do not know—or remember, for that matter. This blade was forged with Naga's power and steeped in the Exalt's bloodline. Only a select few are able to wield it, even among the Ylissean royal house."

"Huh." Morgan cupped his chin in thought. "Well, I've never fought with it before—I don't remember, at least. I guess I wasn't deemed worthy."

"That's not necessarily true, Morgan," Lucina said, staring at him with a seriousness that unnerved him a little. "I never did give you a chance to try it before I traveled back here. Honestly, I'm mortified we've come this far without ever putting it to the test."

Morgan ignored the bad feeling in his stomach and smiled brightly. "It'd be pretty amazing if I could really wield it. A brilliant tactician wielding a legendary sword... Mother would be so proud! Father, too!"

Lucina didn't seem to share his train of thought. "Mostly, I'm ashamed I never stopped to consider it. If you are, in fact, among Falchion's chosen, that is knowledge we need. There may come a time when it proves necessary for you to take it up."

He laughed. "What, like if you're busy with Ini—?"

"Like if I'm dead, Morgan."

He froze.

"Having someone able to wield it even after I'm gone would be a considerable asset," Lucina continued, ignorant of his inner torture. "We must use any means at our disposal to ensure the future is saved." She smiled. "Now let's go put it to the test."

He paused, then scratched the back of his head and looked away. "Aw, forget it. There's no way the sword would choose someone like me."

"You don't know that until you try," Lucina said encouragingly. "You yourself said you wished you were able to wield it. So let's -"

Morgan rounded on her. "I said  _no_! I'm not doing it! Don't make me..." He squeezed his eyes shut. " _Don't make me practice for your death, Lucina_!"

There was a moment of silence that was filled only by Morgan's hard breaths and his sniffs as he tried to keep in his emotions.

Quietly, Lucina said, "I understand how you feel, but we must be practical about this." She came closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder, looking at him so that the gaze of the Brand in her left eye met the gaze of the Brand in his right eye. "We cannot afford to lose this war. No matter what happens or who dies."

"You think I don't know that?!" he snapped, but the sniff that followed made him sound pathetic to his own ears. "But it's not... It's just not that simple, all right? Think of all that Mother's doing to protect us! Would you betray that?"

Her eyes filled with sadness. "Not by choice, Morgan. Never by choice. But there are no guarantees in war."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?! If it means you dying, I don't want anything to do with Falchion!" He sniffed again and blubbered out, "And if you make me try, I'll only use it to chop up more apples,  _so there_!" He pulled away from his sister. "This is pointless. I'm leaving."

He turned and stormed off.

_I'll never take up Falchion. Not like that. Never!_

()()()

Being inside the bright, colorful halls of the castle instantly makes Morgan feel out of place. He doesn't remember how long it's been since he's been inside. He thought he would be happy to return home—albeit in a roundabout manner—but he doesn't feel that way at all and doesn't know exactly why. He doesn't want to think about it.

The guards lead him through several underground corridors before coming back up into a hallway lit by a large window. They open a door; inside is a cozy room, filled with several plush chairs arranged around a low table. An ornate, oak bureau of sorts sits against the far wall and houses a tea set imported from Valm. The window reaches almost completely up and down the length of the wall. Morgan takes a step forward, and his filthy boots sink a little into the rug.

When he sits down, one of the guards retreats from the room, closing the door behind him. The remaining one keeps a hand on his steel lance and stands midway between the door and the window, as if expecting Morgan to bolt in either direction like a spooked pegasus.

Morgan considers lowering his hood, but refrains. He notices the guard tug at his collar.

"Hot, isn't it?" he says.

The guard gives a start. He fidgets, as if trying to remember whether he was told to keep prisoners quiet. "...Yes."

Just a bit of his old curiosity rises inside Morgan. He looks straight at the guard through his mask. "How long have you been in the service of my - Exalt?" he asks, nearly slipping. He almost said  _father_ , but in this world Chrom is neither his father nor the ruler of the Halidom.

"Almost one year." The guard stands up straighter. He looks back at Morgan, but keeps awkwardly quiet.

Morgan hates being looked at in such a way. He opens his mouth to speak up, to say something cheerful, but nothing comes out.

The other guard comes back at this point, bringing a plate of bread, a small portion of meat, and water. He takes care putting it in front of Morgan, as if watching for an aggressive move of some sort, but he does nothing of the kind.

"Thank you," Morgan says before eagerly digging in, filling his empty stomach. It's a bit plain, but better than anything he's tasted in a long while.

He doesn't try to speak to the guards again. The heat of the room, combined with the warmth of his coat and his comfortably-full belly, makes him drowsy. He does his best not to sleep, lest somehow someone takes off his mask or does something to harm him, but within a few minutes he is dozing in the chair, spent.

He's half-aware of what's going on around him and also half-aware of his own dreams. At first the catnap is peaceful, but all at once images come to his mind. Erebus is flashing in great, wide, frenzied arcs. Someone is screaming. Several people are screaming. He is screaming.

He wakes fully with a start, digging his fingers into the armrests of the chair and tensing.

"Are you all right?"

Morgan doesn't recognize the voice, but he does recognize the inclusion of warmth, kindness, and concern. The only nicer melody of speaking he's heard is from his own mother.

He turns to the door and sees that a woman has joined him and the guards. She is tall, stunning - her clothes, which cover all but her head and hands, are a sort of green that can only be described as  _calming_ or  _healing_. Her hair is blonde, like Lissa's, but styled into elegant curls that fall around her shoulders. Her face is soft, her eyes are gentle, and the Mark of the Exalt, Naga's symbol, rests on her forehead.

Morgan's mouth drops open and he almost calls her  _aunt_. "Your Grace," he manages to stutter out. He realizes himself belatedly and stands to bow.

Many things dash through his mind at once. The woman before him has died twice. Not here, not yet, not  _really,_ but he can't help but think about the stories Lucina told him about the night of the assassination, and the day the Exalt plunged toward the Plegian ground.

She smiles. "And you are Mark, I presume?" She motions for him to sit back down and takes a seat herself, across from him. Her posture is straight and regal. She almost seems to glow as the sunlight streaming in through the window falls on her. "After the tactician of old?"

Morgan sits down and simply nods, unsure of how to answer. Emmeryn watches him for a moment, but there is no suspicion in her eyes, or distrust.

She dips her head, only slightly. "You have my thanks for protecting my brother."

"It—it was nothing." For some reason he can't get the imagined picture of her lifeless body out of his mind.

"We will have you brought to another room shortly for questioning. Unless you are tired?" Emmeryn glances toward the window. The summer light is still strong, but the sun is sinking lower and lower. "You are more than welcome to rest for the night beforehand. I apologize in advance; we must keep guards watching you at all times, especially if you still wish to keep your identity from us."

"The guards are fine," Morgan says at once, but turns a thought over in his mind. "...I'm afraid what I have to say should be heard as soon as possible." He's still exhausted from the trip and would have appreciated some sleep and more time to gather himself together, but there's no time to waste. "In fact...I would ask  _you_  if you would like to rest before this."

Emmeryn smiles at his offer but shakes her head. "If what you have to say is for the protection of my people, then I will listen for as long as needed."

She stands, but doesn't take her kind gaze away from Morgan. "Young Mark," she begins, "We will not inquire as to your true identity unless it is absolutely necessary, in return for your rescue of my brother and, in turn, my sister. If anyone tries to force you to reveal yourself, report to me at once, or my brother or sister. We shall protect you."

Morgan stands to bow once more. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Emmeryn nods and walks toward the door. She speaks quietly to the guards, then looks back at Morgan. "I shall see you soon, then."

"Of course."

She leaves, and Morgan stands motionless, still shell-shocked. After a moment, he sinks back into his chair.

 _Is she destined to die here, too?_ Morgan wonders. His father and mother spoke nothing but praise for his late aunt, though he thinks that maybe the woman's excessive kindness might not be practical enough to match the harsh realities of war. Still, there's no denying her importance. In the first world, as Lucina had told him, Ylisse was socially devastated at her assassination and the war against Plegia had just barely been won. In the second, Emmeryn's suicide weakened the Plegian's resolve to fight and had ensured swift victory for Ylisse.

Morgan closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Perhaps he should have asked to have that audience in the morning.

()()()

The first things that Morgan sees when he's led into the room are the two Falchions lying on the long table. One is Chrom's; the other, Morgan's, lies atop the long cloth—Chrom’s cape—it was wrapped in earlier.

Then Morgan notices that his father and Frederick are already in the room, poring over the seemingly identical swords. Frederick is pointing out that Morgan's Falchion has a more worn handle, though only slightly, and Chrom is nodding. Morgan stares at his father, then hurriedly turns his gaze away.

"Ah, Mark," Chrom says in greeting, looking up. Though his eyes betray his curiosity toward Morgan, there is no trace of animosity or distrust like in Frederick's expression. "Please, sit down. Emmeryn should be here in a minute."

Morgan hesitates, then does as he is told. He looks around the room, hesitates again, then says, "...Where is —the other woman?"

Frederick immediately pounces upon the question. "What do you know about Robin? Do the two of you have some sort of plot against the Halidom?" he says, almost snapping, and Morgan has to force himself not to shy away. Before this day, he's never experienced Frederick's distrust.

Chrom puts a hand on Frederick's shoulder. "Calm down, it's all right. I firmly believe that Mark isn't against us. He saved my life, after all. And Robin, for that matter, is your new tactician, so you'd better get used to her."

Morgan holds back a sigh of relief at hearing that his mother is still in the Shepherds. Instead, he says, "What I have to tell you involves her as well."

Chrom nods. "She's on her way."

Morgan nods in return, but doesn't say anything else. There's a tense atmosphere for a minute or two. Chrom sits down across from Morgan, and Frederick keeps glaring at the boy.

"For the record," Frederick says, almost randomly. "I  _am_ grateful for your assistance to my lord. However, I cannot allow any harm to come to the royal house of Ylisse. I will remain the ever-vigilant knight."

If he didn't sound so threatening, Morgan might have laughed. "Understood," he replies instead, reluctant to say anything more.

A door opens, and Morgan turns to see Emmeryn enter the room. She's followed by a woman, probably an advisor or bodyguard, and last to enter the room other than another guard is Robin. Morgan's heart leaps to see his mother, but the emotion immediately plummets when she turns to him with a guarded expression on her face.

"Good evening," Emmeryn greets. Frederick and the guards bow to her; Morgan moves to stand as well, but Frederick throws such a fast and dangerous glare toward him that it almost physically knocks him back into his seat.

Emmeryn sits at the head of the table and the woman sits at her right side so that there is a space between herself and Morgan. Robin hesitates, then hurries to sit beside Chrom. Frederick remains standing, as do the guards.

"Young Mark," Emmeryn says kindly, indicating the man on her right. "This is one the Commander of the Pegasus Knights, Phila—my most trusted advisor and bodyguard." Morgan dips his head to the woman, who looks at him with curiosity but shrewd attention, and Emmeryn continues, "To start, I want to make things clear among all of us. Mark is to be treated with  _respect_  along with caution until further notice. He is not to be treated unfairly, nor must he be forced to reveal his identity unless I say otherwise."

Nods and words of approval occur around the table, although Frederick looks like he wants nothing more than to rip off Morgan's mask.

Emmeryn smiles. "Now, then... Chrom? What say you about Mark's sword?"

"It's Falchion, all right," Chrom says, though as he says it he looks and sounds perplexed. "It appears to have seen more use than mine, however. I have no idea how he can wield it, much less have it in the first place."

Even before Chrom finishes speaking Morgan realizes his own mistake.

Chrom learns forward over the table on his arm, looking at Morgan. Yet, Chrom says nothing, but Morgan knows what must be going through his father's mind.

_How could I have forgotten? That simply using Falchion labels me as one of the Exalted bloodline! I'm so stupid!_

Morgan doesn't understand how he keeps his cool, but he does. He turns to Emmeryn. "May I be allowed to speak freely?"

Emmeryn nods. "By all means."

Morgan takes a breath. He catches his mother's eye—though he doesn't know if she can tell he's looking at her—a finds a bit more strength even if this isn't his  _true_  mother, not the one who gave birth to him and not the one who nurtured him so much.

Finally he says: "I am not from this world."

There's a silence all around the room that isn't broken until Frederick huffs. "You must be mad."

"I must agree, Your Grace," Phila begins, but Emmeryn holds up her hand to silence her.

"That thing in the sky," Robin says. "That those creatures came out of... You came from that."

Morgan nods. "I could not fend off the Risen when I was journeying here. A few came through. However, the Risen will start to appear more and more, all over the continent. They would have come whether or not I did."

"Wait," Chrom said. "Before you keep going on that—where  _exactly_ did you come from?"

Morgan wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and hide from all the questions. He doesn't know where he could mess up—if one bit of information could tip the balance of fate in the right direction or not. He wonders how Lucina managed. But at least now their focus had been diverted from Falchion.

"Originally," he begins slowly, "I'm from a world where the Halidom of Ylisse has almost ceased to exist. Plegia, Regna Ferox, and the countries in Valm were probably in the same condition, but there was no longer any communication between these places. The world...was overrun by Risen, which were ruled by the Fell Dragon, Grima."

Robin’s eyes widen and she rubs the back of her hand. Only Morgan notices the action.

"Grima?" Emmeryn queries. "Naga's counterpart?"

Morgan nods. "I... When I was around seven years old, the House of Ylisse and the Shepherds were able to launch a strike against Grima." He pauses. "Most who went perished."

Chrom's frown is deep. "Who lead this expedition?"

Morgan interlaces his fingers tightly. "You did."

His father doesn't say anything.

"...So what happened to you will happen in our future," Robin surmises.

Morgan nods and takes another breath. "I was a part of a...second series of Shepherds, if you will. It took us a few years, but we managed to gather ourselves for whatever might come and went to the Outrealm Gate. Naga lent us enough of her power to send us to another world—another time." He shifts a little. "In the process, we were attacked, and the spell caused us to be separated. I lost many of my memories of the first world."

"'First world'?" Robin echoes.

"You sound as if this is not the second world for you," Emmeryn says.

Morgan shakes his head. "This is the third, for me."

"Three worlds, and two Falchions,” Chrom says, and Morgan grimaces but nods all the same.

"The second world... we almost saved it, but it fell in the same manner that the original one did, only years earlier." He pauses. "The first battalion of Shepherds died to save my group. And of my group... I am the only survivor."

There is a silence and Morgan looks around the table. Frederick looks incredulous, and Phila’s expression is stern but unreadable. Emmeryn, Robin, and Chrom are listening attentively, however, and all have serious expressions. Morgan silently thanks the gods that they are at least hearing him out.

"How did you try to stop the Fell Dragon?" Robin asks.

Morgan can't look at his mother, only off to the side. "One way to defeat the Fell Dragon is for Grima to kill himself, which isn't an option he would ever take. The most reliable way is for the holder of Falchion to perform the Awakening rite to become powerful enough to silence Grima for a thousand years. Both times, Chrom had been the one to do it. And both times... Chrom has been killed in the final battle."

Chrom looks a little stunned, his face turning a bit ashen. Then he frowns. "All right, then. If what you're saying is all true, then in the future I should just be more careful around dragons."

Morgan presses his fist against his lips to stop a whimper from escaping as he remembers his father’s death, his cold skin, his blood—

"It can't be that simple," Robin argues, looking rather shaky herself. Her words bring Morgan back to the present. "If fate made those worlds go into chaos twice already, then events will still try to assume their natural course in this timeline. Am I right?"

Morgan has to force himself not to look at Emmeryn. "There have been...events...that we tried to change, but ultimately they weren't truly averted."

Chrom crosses his arms. "What kind of 'events'?"

Morgan hesitates. "Deaths," he says at last.

There's another silence, and then Robin asks, "What about that woman who attacked Chrom?"

"You seemed to know her," his father adds. “And called her… ‘Lucina,’ am I correct?”

"She is an agent of Grima," Morgan says, a stern sound entering his voice. "Sent here to come after me and to kill all opposition that stands in the way. Eventually, Grima will gather enough strength to come into this timeline as well. Honestly, Grima could appear at any time, but if I had to wager a guess...at most we have a few years, due to his power being used on his agent."

He pauses. "The agent is imbued with Grima's bloodline. It makes it so that the agent is, essentially, a facet of Grima himself. She will do anything to achieve Grima's goals."

"An avatar, then," Robin says, and Morgan nods. His insides feel like ice.

“A…pseudo-avatar, if you will,” he clarifies.

Frederick grunts. "You have not said how you seem to know that woman."

Morgan's hands ball into fists. His hands are trembling and he thinks his voice is, too. "I cannot tell you more."

Frederick raises an eyebrow. "You  _cannot_  tell us about the woman who tried to kill my lord's life?"

Morgan sits straighter, fighting off his intimidation. "I cannot."

"Why can't you?" Chrom asks seriously, though he is far kinder than his knight.

"I cannot tell you more," Morgan repeats. He looks to his mother and father. "I have given you very little reason to trust me, I know. For all you know, I could simply be deranged, a liar, or a spy. But please…believe me when I say that not all of the information I have of the future is beneficial for you to know as well."


	5. v.

_first_ and  _third_

_“Mommy?”_

_The white-haired woman was stitching a sleeve onto the main body of a coat. She looked up as her little daughter wandered into the small, earthen kitchen. The girl rubbed her eye._

_“What are you doing, Mommy?”_

_“Working like always, my little bird.” She smiled. “Why are you up?”_

_“I had a weird dream.” The little girl toddled over to her mother, and the woman patted her silvery hair. “I don’t really remember it.”_

_“Was it scary?”_

_“I think so. Just a little.”_

_The woman kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Do you need me to tuck you in again?”_

_“Yes, please.”_

_She puts aside the half-finished coat and stands to pick up her daughter. The little girl peers at the cloth over her mother’s shoulder, and scratches the back of her right, fingerless glove._

_“Mommy, why does your coat have Plegia on it, too?”_

_“That’s…not Plegia, little bird. Not really.”_

When she woke up, it wasn’t the unfamiliar room that put her off—not at all. Robin was used to sleeping in different places, different beds, different dwellings.

It was because she woke up knowing that he mother was no longer there with her.

Robin hurriedly sat up and pushed the thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t think about the woman. She was twenty, gods damn it, and she could live by herself. She _deserved_ to live by herself, after all that she’d learned.

Besides, keeping hidden from the Grimleal would be easier by herself, right?

Robin prepared for the day and left the small room she’d rented for the night. The inn she was in served breakfast, albeit a bit expensive, but her stomach was complaining far too loudly for her to care about the price. She sat at the bar and before long was eating eel and liver pie—perhaps not the healthiest breakfast, but delicious nonetheless.

She was content to just eat her fill and be on her way north, but then the door slammed open. Robin turned in her chair to see that a sweaty, wide-eyed villager had come inside.

“Teddy,” someone in the crowded room called out. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Soldiers,” the man said, quickly closing the door behind him. “They’re rounding up recruits for the army, especially mages.”

The bar went quiet, and uneasy murmurs filled the air. Robin swallowed the last of her food and pushed her plate away. She snuck her hand into her coat, making sure the tome in her pocket was buried deeply as she listened to the conversations around her.

“I can’t believe they’re still drafting.”

“I don’t know why they’d be recruiting so close to the border instead of defending it like they should be.”

“My nephew was already taken.”

“Gangrel wants to kill us all, doesn’t he?”

“…They want mages, huh?”

Robin turned to look at the figure sitting beside her. It was a woman with silky black hair. Most of her body was wrapped in a cloak, but of the skin that did show, hers was as pale as the moon, unlike most Plegians who tended to have tanned skin.

“Mages,” the woman muttered again. She stared absently at her glass, dragging her thumb across it. “Dark mages, of course. There’s no getting out of here in time, is there?”

She spoke to no one, and it unnerved Robin a little. Still, the woman had a point—trying to leave the town now would only attract attention from the wrong people.

_Mother was right. Crossing the border is harder than it appears, huh?_

She shook her head, dispelling the thought. She wished she could stay in Plegia, in all honesty. She loved the people—certainly not the Grimleal and certainly not King Gangrel, but the people were kind and resilient.

It wasn’t fair for them—or her, or anyone—to live in fear like this.

()()()

Emmeryn suggests they all get some rest and ruminate on Mark’s words, and no one protests. It’s later, after all, and most of those in the room traveled that day.

Robin watches as the guards lead Mark from the room, and his words echo in her mind.

_“A…pseudo-avatar, if you will.”_

Who, then, was the real…?

Her hand itches, but she pushes the thought away, denying the possibility with all her might. All she knew of the Mark of Grima on her hand was that it was something from her father. That it linked her to the Grimleal. That if the Grimleal found her they would take her—and if the followers of Naga saw her birthmark, they would shun her.

“Robin?”

She blinks and turns to Chrom. “I—sorry. Did you say something?”

He smiles a little, but then a frown replaces it. “I suppose I cannot blame you for being distracted. You need some rest; I’ll show you to a room.”

“Thank you,” Robin said gratefully, and after wishing goodnight to a pensive Emmeryn, Phila, and Frederick, the two left the room.

“I asked for a room to be prepared while you are here with the Shepherds,” Chrom says as they walk through the now-quiet and dim hallways. The atmosphere of the castle is nothing like it was just earlier that afternoon. “I hope it will be to your liking.”

Robin frowns. “A room, and not the barracks?”

“Well, you’re now our tactician; such an important position warrants good rest. Am I wrong? If it’s being treated fairly you’re worried about, if we ever go on the road, you’ll have a tent just like everyone else.”

“I…suppose not.” Robin looks at the paintings on the walls, of people unrecognizable aside from their slight resemblances to the Exalted siblings. “I doubt I would have slept well in the same place as so many people.”

“Oh?” Chrom leans a little closer to her, like he’s curious. “Not used to people, are you?”

“No,” she replies, and somehow she finds that continuing a conversation with the prince puts her at ease, something that she needs after interrogating Mark. “Until rather recently, I only lived with my mother, and we moved a lot.”

“May I ask why?”

“Well, we moved to avoid the draft,” she said, half-lying. “So I never knew anyone for long.”

“You’ll have many chances to make friends, I assure you,” Chrom says with amusement. “How are you faring so far?”

She finds herself chuckling. “I’ve only just met them.”

“Fine, then—how do you find them?”

“Very capable, all of them,” Robin says. “And quite nice, especially Sumia, and Stahl as well.”

Chrom is smiling. “Yes, quite. All the Shepherds are quite promising. They have my every confidence.”

He stops at a door and gestures to it. “Your room.”

She finds herself rather disappointed, that he’ll no longer be distracting her for the night. “Thank you,” she says all the same.

There’s a moment where neither of them move, nor speak—and then Chrom steps aside. “Have a good night, Robin,” he wishes, then adds, rather seriously, “We’ll need our rest for tomorrow.”

And Robin’s mind plummets back to the troubling matters at hand. “Goodnight, Chrom,” she says, a little stiffly now, and enters the room.

She closes the door and leans against it, staring at the spacious, beautiful room, but not taking it in. She stands there for minutes.

Finally, Robin uses the attached bathroom and cleans the grime from her body. She was filthy, her hair a tangled mess, too. It’s a wonder Chrom even offered her a position with the state of her appearance at the time. She tries to think about that, about the speed in which she’s become tactician for the Ylissean prince, but her mind keeps drifting.

She puts on a silk nightgown left on the bed, but it feels too cold and she shivers. She doesn’t take it off though; instead she gets into the plush bed and pulls not just the covers over herself, but her cloak as well.

Her fingers rub the hood slowly, with familiarity. “Mother,” she murmurs. “What else did you keep from me?”

She isn’t sure she wants to know.

()()()

“Lady Robin,” a girl says, and Robin sluggishly opens her eyes.

“Her Grace requests your presence at breakfast,” the girl continues. She’s dressed in a dark dress uniform. She’s a maid. “I will await you and escort you there once you are ready, unless you are in need of my assistance.”

Robin sits up and blinks, taking in her surroundings. It takes a moment for her memories of the previous day to come to the forefront of her mind. “I…will be fine,” she says, her words jumbled with sleep and complete bewilderment. She’s never seen a maid before, much less _expected_ to see one.

The maid bows. “I shall be outside if you require my presence.” Instead of leaving through the door to the hallway, the girl tugs on a curtain beside the bed and disappears through a concealed panel in the wall.

Robin stares, trying to adjust to the concept of servant passageways. And servants themselves.

“The Ylissean palace,” she mutters, getting out of bed and finding her clothes. “Tactician. Shepherds. Exalt. Chrom…and Mark.”

Even after resting, not much of all the information makes sense, even in her mind.

When Robin finishes dressing, she hesitates. Then, she knocks on the wall.

A second later, the panel opens, and the brown-haired maid smiles at her. “Are you ready, Lady Robin?”

“…Yes,” Robin replies. “Um…what is your name?”

The girl—she can’t be much older than sixteen—curtsies. “It is Felicia.”

Robin points at the panel. “Do you…just wait in that hallway all the time?”

Felicia giggles. “Of course not. I require sleep as well, Lady Robin. During the hours you are away or do not require me, I shall be resting or attending to other duties. When you are here in this room, I shall be awaiting your orders right here.” She closes the panel and starts toward the door, and Robin hesitatingly followers her.

“Even when I’m sleeping?”

“Of course! What if you become uncomfortable, or are in danger? I have been assigned to see to your comfort, Lady Robin, and­­—”

“Just—” She holds out a hand to stop the girl. “Just ‘Robin’ is fine.”

Felicia instantly looks appalled. “I cannot! That would be rude.”

Robin wants to protest—she’s no “Lady,” no noblewoman—but Felicia puts her hand on the door handle and says, “I must insist that we leave and not keep Her Grace and her siblings waiting.” Robin can’t say anything against that, and gives up for the time being to follow the maid out into the hallway and through the castle to the dining room, where Felicia bows and ushers her to enter without her.

The dining room is grand.

Robin’s jaw drops a little as she takes in the tall walls, the arched ceiling, the chandelier overhead. Morning sunlight filters through the tall windows at the far end of the room. More tapestries and paintings hand on the walls beside gold and silver candleholders, and a deep red carpet lines the center of the room. A long, ornate table made of polished oak stands in the middle, surrounded by equally gorgeous chairs. Bread and fruit laden the surface, and sitting at the head is Emmeryn, with Chrom on her right and Lissa on her left. Frederick and Phila stand off to either side, each next to a butler.

“Ah, Robin!” Lissa lifts her hand in greeting. “Come sit beside me!”

Robin remembers how to move her feet and walks along the side of the table to sit beside Lissa. All three siblings smile warmly at her.

“Please eat, by all means,” Emmeryn says, motioning to the food and ice-cold pitchers of drinks. Robin reaches for one, but a butler swoops out of nowhere and pours water into her crystal glass. At least he lets her choose her own food from the plates and baskets.

“Is there anything else you require?” he asks, and when Robin shakes her head, he retreats.

Chrom chuckles. “I can see by your expression that this is all quite unusual.”

“‘Quite’ puts it lightly,” Robin says, tearing off a piece of her bread to eat.

“Robin, tell me,” Lissa insists at once. “Emm and Chrom won’t tell me what’s going on with Mark! I want to know!”

One look to Emmeryn and Chrom tells Robin all she needs to know, so she focuses her attention on her food. “If they don’t want you to know, I won’t tell you.”

“Aw.” Lissa pouts. “Why won’t anyone tell me?”

“We will once things are sorted out,” Chrom says.

Emmeryn pats her hand. “Have patience, Sister.”

Lissa crosses her arms. “I don’t like being patient.”

Robin laughs along with Chrom and Emmeryn, and for the first time that day she feels completely at ease.

()()()

When they get to the meeting room, Mark already sits waiting for them with his guards. He shifts a little uncomfortably as they all take seats around him, Emmeryn opting to sit directly across from him.

"Are you going to tell us your name today, Young Mark?" Frederick asks pointedly as he takes his place standing.

"No, Sir Frederick," Mark replies, and he pushes against his mask a little and adjusts the cowl of his black coat. He glances at Chrom and Robin as they sit down, but he quickly looks away.

"Young Mark," Emmeryn begins, and Mark turns to her. "For now we have decided to believe you. After all, your Falchion is proof enough of your words."

"…When will I be able to have it back?" Mark asks. "And my tome."

"She didn't say anything about trusting you," Frederick says at once.

Phila nods. "Please understand us. We cannot give you our full trust, at least not yet."

"I understand," Mark replies. "But please understand me when I say that I do not feel safe without my weapons."

"I'll give them back to you as soon as possible, Mark," Emmeryn assures him.

"...All right," he concedes.

"We want to ask you more about Grima," Chrom says, and Mark nods and answers, "I'll tell you if I can."

"You said that this 'Lucina' has Grima's blood," Chrom continues. "How is this possible?"

Mark is silent for a moment, seeming to think it over. "It's much the same how Naga made a pact with the Ylissean royal family. But a sect of the Grimleal dedicated themselves to creating an avatar for Grima to house upon his return. They've bred a whole line to lead to the avatar."

Robin's frown deepens, and she only barely keeps herself from shuddering. "…There's an avatar in this world?"

Mark nods stiffly. "Yes. An unused one, as of yet. So the avatar here hasn't been awakened with Grima's power."

"So Grima could come to this world and take control of the avatar?" Robin presses, her fingers digging into her palms.

 _There’s no proof_ , she reminds herself. _I’m jumping to conclusions._

"...Yes."

"Is it this Lucina woman?" Phila asks.

Mark hesitates. "...As of yet, she is not born here."

"He called her a 'pseudo-avatar,' not the true one," Frederick points out. "Yet that means there is a progenitor alive. From what Young Mark has said, this 'avatar' could truly prove to be a threat."

"We can stop Grima without involving the avatar," Mark protests, and his voice cracks slightly. "It isn't the avatar's fault they were bred for this."

Chrom grimaces. "I have to agree with Mark. As of yet, the avatar isn't guilty of anything."

Robin glances to Chrom, then studies Mark. He’s tense, his head angled toward the table.

"Do you know the identity of this avatar?" Phila asks, her voice becoming taut.

Mark doesn't answer.

"You must tell us," Frederick demands. He looks to Emmeryn. "Your Grace, we must at least find this person and keep them imprisoned. If the worst comes, we'll execute—"

" _No_!"

Mark slams his hands on the table and shoots to his feet, turning to Frederick. Robin jumps in her chair, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You can't do that to an innocent person!" he shouts. "And it won't even work!  _It'll only make things_   _worse_!"

Then Mark freezes.

Everyone in the room stares at him. Emmeryn and Chrom look concerned. Phila stands and Frederick grabs an axe at his side. Robin forces herself to stay calm and still, watching.

Before the knight can threaten him, Mark slides his hands back from the table and stands up straight, but keeps his head turned down a little. "I won't answer any more questions."

"But if what you say is true, then you must," Phila argues.

Mark doesn't look at any of them. "I won't answer any more questions."

There's a tense silence. Emmeryn finally breaks it when she says, "All right, then. Guards, please take Mark back to his room. Continue to make sure he is comfortable."

The guards come forward, but before they can grab his arms, Mark turns from the table and leaves as swiftly as possible, and the guards follow him.

“Your Grace,” Phila says at once. “We should have kept him for questioning.”

“I must agree,” Frederick begins, but Emmeryn is already shaking her head.

“Mark seems only a child, still,” she says. “We must be patient. He has said little about the carnage he’s witnessed, but he must have seen more than we can imagine all the same.

Chrom runs a hand through his hair. “Such an intense reaction… I agree, we should lay off him for the time being. I’m sure he’ll open up when the need to arises.”

Frederick frowns, but doesn’t argue.

“…I think it’s safe to assume that such a reaction warrants that the ‘avatar’ is not someone we should kill,” Emmeryn says at last. She looks to Robin. “What say you about all this?”

Robin thinks for a moment, trying to put her thoughts in straight order. “We should…not press him too much. I think knowing too much about future events will only make things harder for us. Already, things have changed. We don’t know how much they will. If we knew what happened completely, we may fall into the trap of expecting them to happen when really something else will.”

 _Besides,_ she thinks, and squeezes her hand. _I…don’t want to know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes... "Felicia" is from fe14. Sue me. (don't)


	6. vi.

_second_

Most of Lucina’s sanity shattered when she saw her mother—overcome by magic—stab her father.

Lucina screamed and slashed her way through the Risen, Morgan by her side, the both of them yelling and crying as they tried to make their way across the bloody, ashen cathedral. Morgan kept sobbing “No, no, no no no,”and Lucina threw all of her rage and confusion and fear into her sword swings.

She wanted something to make sense.

The barrier Validar had erected with magic was shrinking as more and more of his attention was drawn away from it. Sometime in all the chaos, Robin had turned from her husband’s body and was locked in a duel with her father. Dark magic soured the air, and Robin’s thoron spells spiked the room with tremors of electricity. Their battle was so intense that the whole, spacious hall—already filled with the sounds of combat—shook as the two powers collided.

_Why?_

Lucina and Morgan reached their father’s body, and the boy stopped stock-still while she dropped to the ground, her knees becoming soaked with blood. Lucina reached out a shaky hand, her fingers touching Chrom’s already-cold cheek. His blue eyes were glazed.

Her voice caught in her constricting throat. “H-he’s—!” Whimpers and half-screams escaped her mouth, and she buried her face against his chest.

_Why? Why? Why, why, why why why why why! You promised me!_

“F-Father?” Morgan’s knees weakened, and he slowly knelt down.

He felt his father’s hand. Tears started to stream down his face, but he wasn’t as vocal as his sister. He hiccupped, then—trembling—he reached to where Falchion lay on the ground. He pulled the bloody Divine Blade toward him, and then pulled its sheath out of his father’s belt. Slowly, Morgan slid the sword back into its holder.

He hugged the blade to his chest.

“L-Lucina,” he said, standing, and she finally looked up at him. Her eyes were red and bloodshot.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t…” His lip quivered, and he turned to look toward where Robin was battling with Validar. His eyes widened, and his voice came out as a strained but awed whisper. “…Mother hasn’t become Grima.”

Lucina almost numbly looked toward the duel. Robin was bleeding, grimacing, but she still fought vigorously. “But she…” Nothing made sense to Lucina. “Father is…”

But then, a jolt of black lightning shot from Validar’s fingertips and hit Robin in the chest. The force of the blast rocketed the tactician backward until she hit the far wall and fell to the floor.

Lucina stared.

“ _Mother_!” Morgan rushed forward, banging his fist against the transparent wall between them and her. “Mother! Mother!”

_Why? Why, why is this happening?_

Validar walked forward toward the silver-haired woman. He extended a hand almost invitingly, and Robin gritted her teeth and glared at him.

“Y-you promised me,” Lucina whispered. Her fingers tightened around her father’s cape and she could hardly register that he was dead. “You promised me things would be different…!”

Validar and Robin spoke, the woman’s eyes narrowed with hatred and sorrow, but they couldn’t be heard above the clamor of battle and Morgan’s pleas. Lucina only watched, clinging to this one moment, this one final thread she had to sanity after years and years of watching people die, of having hope only for it to now lay dead on the floor beneath her.

She watched as Robin suddenly tensed and shuddered, and Validar stood taller, raising his hand in triumph. Robin gripped her tome, her knuckles white and her face ashen.

“Mother!” Morgan pounded and pounded on the invisible shield. “ _Mother!_ ”

All at once, Robin stopped shaking.

She smiled sadly.

Her lips moved.

She shot up from the floor, grabbed Validar, and then—

The screams in the air reached Lucina’s ears, but she didn’t listen to them.

She was broken.

Validar’s shield dropped just as powerful magic swept through the entire cathedral, spreading outward. The wave knocked Morgan back far, far into the crowd of Risen and Shepherds, but Lucina, so low to the ground, ducked and was hardly affected.

She didn’t want to believe what she had just seen.

Lucina _heard_ but didn’t _perceive._ Instead, she clung to her father’s cold, pale body. She tried to pretend he was merely asleep. That the hole in his stomach wasn’t from her mother’s magic. That her mother hadn’t just—

A burst of dark, pulsating magic burst through the air. Lucina was still so low to the ground that it hardly affected her. Nothing else could affect her anymore. She circled her arms even more tightly around Chrom’s body. He didn’t respond.

She didn’t want to admit that she had failed. That her years of trying and trying had been for naught. That Grima had won.

But her hope had died with her parents.

“You promised me,” she whispered into her father’s cape. “You promised me that our bonds were strong enough to overcome this. Father…”

All around her, more and more Risen formed up from dark magic. They crowded the whole Grimleal cathedral. They chased the Shepherds—nay, they were no heroes without their lord and tactician to guide them, she thought—from the Dragon’s table. The monsters were probably killing them.

“Kill me, too,” Lucina begged, not even lifting her head. The black emotion of despair clung to her, dragging her soul down, drowning her. Making her go mad. “I want to go with Father and Mother…”

She kept muttering that. “I want to go. I want to go with them. Kill me. I want to go.” She begged and begged for minutes and minutes, a terrifying eternity. At some point, the only sound left in the emptying room was her shaky voice.

And then there were footsteps.

They echoed through the hall, growing louder in Lucina’s unreceptive ears as they came closer. They stopped, and a moment later, a hand began to gently stroke her hair.

“My beautiful Lucina. What pains you so?”

Lucina’s heart jolted, and she lifted her head to see her mother kneeling beside her.

The girl stared at her. The woman’s dark eyes no longer held warmth or kindness. The chill of dark magic surrounded her. Yet, she smiled and continued to pet her daughter’s hair.

What had transpired in the cathedral—and the presence of the woman before her—had splintered Lucina’s perception of reality.

She reached out to Grima. “Mother…you’re alive?”

“Of course I am.” She took Lucina’s hand in hers. The avatar radiated the chill of death, but her skin burned like hot coals, almost unbearable. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“You…” Lucina struggled to put it all together. “I saw…”

“Oh, my dear. What you saw was not really me.” Grima-incarnate opened up her arms. “Come here, to your mother.”

Tears burned in Lucina’s eyes. “But Father…”

“Your father is gone, my child.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she scrambled away from her father’s corpse and threw herself into Grima’s arms.

“There, there.” Her mother rubbed her shaking shoulders. “Do not despair so. He was foolish.”

And finally, somewhere inside Lucina’s fractured spirit, she realized that this was not right.

But before that realization could rise to the surface of her mind, Grima continued, “This despair was because you fought against me. This despair exists because you did not submit to your mother’s wishes. If you had let Mother handle everything, our family would be living like kings—nay, gods.”

Grima began to stand, but Lucina clutched onto her. The girl looked up with wide, terrified blue eyes at her mother, and the Brand of Naga gleamed just a little in the dim light—but Grima could see the faint outline of Mark in her other iris. “You mean…this is my fault?”

“It began with your foolish father.” Grima stood fully now and extended her hand. “And you continued it. But you can still repent.”

“Will that…” Her voice broke. “Will that bring Father back?”

“…With the right power, you may be able to see him again,” Grima said slowly. “But we must start as soon as possible.”

Lucina took hold of her mother’s hand and stood. “What power…?”

“To reawaken your father…” Grima extended her free hand, and Chrom’s unblinking corpse turned to violet ashes, moving through the air to collect in a sphere above her palm. “We must feed at the Dragon’s Table. However…” She scowled. “Your precious Shepherds befouled the meal. There isn’t enough left to manifest my body at full strength.”

Grima made a fist, and the ash sphere glowed with magic and seemingly disappeared. Lucina watched intensely, and when Grima noticed the stare, she frowned at her daughter. “My child?”

Lucina smiled, wide and relieved. “I’m just so happy to see you alive, Mother.”

Grima smiled in hurt, but it held none of the familial love seen in Lucina’s expression. “And I am happy that you have returned to me.”

()()()

Lucina is only vaguely aware.

“Oh? Nyahaha, what’s this?”

_….Did I pass out?_

“…Oh…”

_The wound must be worse than I thought. Perhaps because the blade is divine…?_

Someone touches her shoulder, and she snaps around on the ground, turning a glare toward the person. The young man backs off—just a little.

_Mage robes…white hair…?_

Lucina’s body relaxes only slightly, but she struggles to keep her eyes wide open. She pushes against the ground, trying to lift herself up. When did she pass out? She doesn’t remember.

“Easy, easy,” the mage says—cheerily, but also like she’s a wild animal. “Do you need help?”

“I—do not,” she hisses, her pride and her Fell Blood fueling her words.

He keeps the fake smile on his face. “Someone’s lying~!” he says, a lilt in his voice.

“Shut up.” She gets her feet underneath her body. Her vision blurs, flickers. She tries to stand but her legs shake and she collapses again.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, silly.”

Lucina tries to get up again. “Where is that church?” she snaps in one breath, before she can lose it. She blacks out completely for a moment, missing some of the man’s words, but she hears a little.

“…take you there, don’t…”

She wants to hiss, to fight, but then she isn’t aware of anything.

()()()

As Lucina sleeps, she eventually becomes aware enough to feel a change in her body. A white-hot energy feeds into her soul, and it concentrates in her side. The magic is healing, but not comforting. It burns, like someone is pressing hot coals into her skin.

Lucina tries to scream, to twist about like an animal to get away, but her body lays paralyzed in a semi-conscious state. She waits and waits and waits for the hellish feeling to end, and finally, finally it starts to fade.

 _Hell_ , she scoffs in her mind, her first thought in what seems to her like eons. _Hell is nothing like that_.

“Ah, you’re wakey-wakey!”

She opens her eyes to discover that the white-haired dark mage is beside her again. _Henry_. But she knows he’s no threat, especially not now. The heavy weight of Erebus rests against her hip. Her side is no longer pained with a wound (or dark healing magic, for that matter).

The once-princess turns her gaze toward their dim surroundings. The walls are damp stones, the windows are stained purple and black, and the floor is lined with rows of pews that show the wear and tear of masses generally forced to sit in them. The true, devout number of Grimleal is only a small percent of Plegia’s population.

“I brought you to the church like you asked!” the mage says cheerily. “A priest healed you all up nice and good with his dark magic. It was cool to watch!”

Lucina sits up, finding that she had been put on some sort of dais at the forefront of the church. It’s a cheap, mediocre recreation of the Dragon’s Table, and it makes her want to spit on it.

Instead, she regards Henry with a cool gaze. “Where is that priest?”

The mage shrugs. “Passed out! Dark magic healing takes a lot out of you. Anyway, lady, are you Grima?”

Grima’s daughter lets out just a small breath of laughter and slides off the dais to stand. “Yes and no. Does that sate your curiosity?”

He shakes his head.

Lucina ignores him for the moment and puts a hand on her side, finding only smooth skin and dried blood around the hole in her clothes. “Tell me,” she says almost distractedly. “Might you know where the hierophant is?”


	7. vii.

_second_

"Sister!" Morgan jogged through the castle hallways. "Sister!"

He ran to the library entrance, but at the same time Lucina stepped out. Morgan tried to stop, but he tripped over his boots in true Sumia fashion and fell in a heap at the princess's feet.

"Morgan?!" She knelt beside him but kept glancing between him and the corridor. "Is something wrong?! Is someone attacking the castle?!"

"Oh - nope!" Morgan sat straight up and rubbed at a sore spot on his head. "Sorry for worrying you."

Lucina relaxed, but a frown remained on her face. "You have to stop yelling like that when there's nothing going on."

"I said I was sorry!"

She finally broke into a small smile. She stood, then held her hand out to him. "So, what's so exciting?"

Morgan accepted her help and rose to his feet. "You'll never guess what I found in the courtyard," he jabbered, digging through his pockets before pulling out a blue mask, broken in two by a clean cut nearly exactly down the middle. "You wore this when we went through the timestream, right?"

"I did." Lucina took one piece and turned it over in her hand. "An assassin broke it on the night of Aunt Emmeryn's..." She trailed off and then smiled a little, and Morgan thought it looked a little forced. "I completely forgot about it."

"But it's so cool-looking!" Morgan took back the piece Lucina held and lined the mask up along the cut. "I'd wear this all the time and make fun of Gerome!  _Oh my gods,_ why didn't I think of that before?!"

Lucina laughed, her smile turning genuine. "You'd best be careful, little brother. You don't want to end up on the wrong side of his axe."

Morgan shrugged. "Do you think Miriel knows mending spells? I bet she does."

"Probably," Lucina agreed.

A thought struck Morgan. "Oh... Do you want it back when it's fixed?" He lowered his hands a little and looked his sister in the eye. "It was yours first."

"No, Morgan, but thank you." Her smile became a bit softer. "I don't need it anymore. You can keep it."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she said with a laugh. "Maybe  _you'll_ need it for when Gerome starts hunting you down for making fun of him."

()()()

When Morgan is back in his room and alone, he rushes to the bed and buries himself under the covers. The air quickly becomes humid and sticky from his breath, but he doesn't care. He grabs a pillow, wishing it were his mother or father or sister, and buries his face against it. It pushes the mask into his skin.

"I can't do this," he says, his voice muffled. "I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.  _Why didn't I die, too_?"

He stays that way for a long while, muttering and feeling tears leak down the side of his face. He can't stop thinking about how Lucina would be so much better at this than him. She would be so much more reliable. He can barely look at his parents without wanting to cry. He doesn't want them to die again.

Someone knocks on the door, probably an hour or two later, and the guards announce that his lunch has arrived. Morgan doesn't reply. Maybe they'll think he's asleep. Maybe they'll think he's dead.

They knock again, and then for a while there's silence. Morgan just convinces himself that he's all alone in the world when he hears another rapping.

"Mark? Are you awake?"

The voice startles him out of his stupor. He slowly sits up, the cool air hitting his skin like a winter wind.

"Mark?"

"O-one moment," he calls, using his sleeve to wipe the wet trails from his face. He gets out of bed, makes sure his hood hangs properly over his head, and approaches the door. He hesitates, then opens it.

Emmeryn smiles at him. "Young Mark. Would you like to walk with me?"

()()()

The courtyards are lush and green. Flowers of all types−roses and violets especially−color the area. It's warm in the summer sun, but there are plenty of trees to provide shade.

Morgan walks beside Emmeryn on a stone pathway. Phila follows them, but at a bit of a distance. Behind her are two women who appear to be pegasus knights, but Morgan's never seen them before.

"Are you comfortable in your quarters?" Emmeryn asks quietly, her voice smooth and pleasant.

"Y-yes, Your Grace," Morgan replies. He keeps glancing at her, unsure of her, but her eyes are on the surrounding foliage.

"There are no problems?"

"No."

"I am told that you refused a meal."

The question catches him off-guard. He's expecting an interrogation, not this. But then again, he still doesn't know what to expect from Emmeryn. He was never meant to meet her. "I...was not hungry."

"Really?" Emmeryn says. She smiles. "I sometimes think that all men must eat like my brother. Rarely does he not eat, and he always has more than even a pegasus can have."

A chuckle escapes Morgan before he realizes it, because it's a very accurate description of his father. As soon as it's out he tries to take it back in and becomes silent. He looks cautiously at Emmeryn.

The Exalt is looking back at him.

"Young Mark," she says, "how old are you?"

He has to think the answer over before he can reply. "I believe...sixteen or seventeen. I was born on the fifth of May. But the years since I was born...are hard to count."

"That is quite young," she remarks. "And you have few memories of your childhood, am I correct?"

Something about Emmeryn's voice makes him relaxed.  _Maybe she has a charm spell around her that makes her such a beloved leader_ , he muses to himself, hardly serious. She's simply an extraordinary sort of person, like his mother−the sort of person you instantly become at ease around.

"I do not have many," he admits. "I remember my parents...my mother more than my father. I have a−sibling," he says, reluctant to mention  _sister_.

"What sort of people are your parents?"

Morgan looks at the flowers alongside the path and finds himself smiling. "They always put other people before themselves." The corners of his lips stretch even farther across his face. "They're really sappy, especially my dad. Sometimes it's embarrassing."

Emmeryn lets out a small laugh. "That's wonderful."

Morgan shrugs. "But...I guess a lot of parents are like that."

"Mine were not."

He looks back to the Exalt to find that her smile has faded. However, it comes back as soon as she notices his attention.

"Do not concern yourself with it," she says. "It is of no importance."

Morgan doesn't know what to say, so he looks off to the side.

"Mark."

He looks back at her to find that she has stopped. He halts.

Emmeryn is no longer smiling. Her face is serious, her eyes narrowed in determination.

"I understand that you hold a precarious position," she says. "And I do not doubt that what you have told us is the truth. But if there is anything more that could benefit my people, I implore you: Tell me it now."

Morgan's heart sinks.

"...You are far too kind," he says quietly. He glances to the trailing pegasus knights, and deems that they're too far away to hear him if he keeps his words hushed.

He takes a breath. "In the first world...no, in  _both_ worlds...your kindness reaches the hearts of many. But...that kindness is not what is needed to win wars. Diplomacy can only go so far." He lifts his head to meet her gaze head-on. "However hard it may be for you, sometimes you must choose violence. Sometimes there is no other way."

Emmeryn remains silent for a few moments. Finally, she nods and says, "I will consider your words when the time comes." Yet, her expression is unreadable.

Morgan nods back. "That is all I can ask of you."

"Mark."

"Yes?"

She smiles, her eyes softening. "Your family...I can keep them protected for you. And I promise no one will discern your identity."

Morgan lets out an unintentional huff and turns away. "That's not possible. But...I thank you for the offer."

()()()

Morgan returns to his room and finds that he isn't nearly as hopeless about the future as he was that morning. He's still uncertain, more uncertain than he's ever been in his life, but somehow, speaking to his aunt has calmed him.

He sits on the bed and takes off his mask. He traces his fingers along the edges.  _Lucina... I'm sorry we failed. But I promise I won't fail this time around. I won't give up, even if it's so hard I can barely breathe. You fought so hard for our happiness. Our friends did, too. I'll fight hard. I'll make sure the us in this world grow up happy._

A hard rapping sounds form his door, and Morgan hurriedly puts his mask back on and goes to turn the handle.

For the second time, he is surprised at who stands in the doorway.

"Mark," Chrom says. He stands tall, with one hand rested on the end of Falchion's hilt. His expression is determined, but there's also a small smile on his lips.

"C-Chrom?" Morgan stutters, suddenly very aware of how small he sounds.

"Get to bed early tonight," the lord says. "You're reporting to the Shepherds' barracks in the morning."

Morgan's brows knit together. "...Why?"

"We're marching to Regna Ferox."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a long time, but back by popular demand, I suppose. still very nervous overall about this fic (I don't want to screw up), but I'm doing my best. we'll see how it goes.
> 
> thanks for the support!


	8. viii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin remembers a lesson from her mother and continues to fret about "Mark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 am voice* I'll be ok posting without re-reading the chapter until later
> 
> the past few days I think I've figured out more of what I want to do thank god (I'm so sorry I'm so slow)

_first, second,_ and _third_

Morgana moved her pegasus knight piece the allotted eight spaces across the cheap playing board. “All right, Robin,” she said with a flourish of her hand. “Your turn.”

The preteen huffed, tugging at her right pigtail. She muttered something that sounded an awful lot like a curse, then moved most of her available units into defensive positions around her throne square—unfortunately, they nearly all happened to be sword-users or mages who were likely to be outclassed by her mother’s pegasus knights. Robin’s own more mobile units had already been taken out, aside from the great knight she had affectionately named “Titania,” after the Tellian lore she’d read about in her mother’s books. She carefully considered the mobility of the enemy units, and then set Titania into a position within reach of two units instead of attacking one of them.

Morgana smirked, then set her sword users to attack Titania. The first unit knocked Titania into half-health, and then the second landed a critical hit to put her out of commission.

“What?!” Robin leaped out of her chair and stuck her face close to the die her mother had cast. “You didn’t rig this, did you?”

“Of course not,” Morgana said, a laugh in her voice.

Robin suddenly whined and plopped back down. “Not Titania…”

“You should’ve used her to attack with her lance before I had the chance to attack you,” Morgana chided, continuing with her turn. She used two pegasus knights to take out “Zihark” and “Soren,” then sent in her third to take the throne square.

“They had killing edges,” Robin grumbled, gathering up her pieces. She ended up with Titania and Soren in hand and pouted at the figures that only resembled the legendary figures in their vague shapes and the letters etched into their small stands. “I didn’t want her to die. That was the only place where she was within reach of the least amount of enemies.”

“You have a bad habit for a tactician hopeful, you know,” Morgana said as she scooped her units into a leather bag. Her tone was rather clipped, like it usually was when she was teaching her daughter a lesson. “You go into battle hoping—expecting, really—to keep all of your units alive. You play your strategy safer, with fewer risks. It makes you easy to exploit.”

Robin sighed and tossed her pieces into her own bag with more force than necessary. “I don’t like playing that way. I like my units too much.”

“You’re too _attached_ to your units. There’s a difference between liking your units and knowing their strengths and weaknesses, and not wanting them to die because you can’t bear to carry on without them emotionally. If you can’t learn to take risks, or make possible—perhaps necessary—sacrifices when you need to, you’ll never win.”

“ You don’t know that!” Robin grabbed her bag of pieces and stood. “Your luck will run out, Mother. I’ll show you I can win, the way I want to.”

Morgana smiled, but the gesture was patronizing. “You’ll see, one day.”

()()()

Robin frowns as she looks through the checklists for equipment, rosters, and maps—there are all sorts of documents to keep track of for just a small march to Regna Ferox for a diplomatic mission. She’s made sense of it all, but she’s still troubled.

“You’re up early, Lady Robin,” someone says, and Robin turns to find Felicia illuminated in the predawn light coming from the window.

Robin relaxes a little, realizing that her visitor is someone she’s more acquainted with. “Good morning, Felicia.” She turns back to the pile of documents. “I’m going through everything before we start the march today.”

Felicia comes up beside her and peers at the contents on the desk. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine on your first march! Don’t worry so much.”

The tactician rubs her temple and sighs. “…I just can’t shake the feeling that Chrom was wrong to choose me for this.” _And that Mark’s future gives me the worst feeling in my stomach,_ she adds silently, and her body makes a small, involuntary shudder.

“Hmm…” Felicia puts her hand to her chin, and it surprises Robin that she seems genuinely concerned. Few people have ever cared for her in such a way, the majority of whom she’s met only in the past few days. “You should speak to Lord Chrom before the march! I am sure he could put you at ease about all of this. And then you could be more focused!”

“Perhaps that’s a good idea,” Robin agrees; the thought of Chrom actually makes her a bit more relaxed for some reason. She starts to organize all the papers on her desk into a pile. “I’ll go do that now.”

“Good!” Felicia smiles and actually bounces a little before she seems to realize her position and hurriedly stops. She’s been doing small things like that, and it makes Robin think that the girl’s apparent professionalism when they first met was a fluke, not that it makes Robin think less of her—it actually does the opposite.

Robin finds herself chuckling. Already she is much more at ease with the maid than she was the previous day, despite the fact that she’s still adverse to the idea of a servant being her near-constant shadow. “Thank you, Felicia.”

“No problem, Lady Robin.” She pauses. “Would you like me to come with you on the journey? In case you need my assistance?”

“What for? Isn’t your place here? And…” Robin glances at the girl. “You would have to keep out of harm’s way if something were to happen.”

Felicia giggles. “I’m trained to protect if I must. I’d do my best!”

The words impress Robin, but still, the idea of the skinny, younger girl beside her being in actual combat worries her more than she’d like to admit, especially after only knowing Felicia for such a short time. Robin stands and collects her things, then moves to pat Felicia’s arm before realizing it might be too familiar a gesture. “Stay here and keep an eye on things for me? I’ll be just fine.”

Felicia seems a bit troubled, but she smiles. “All right, Lady Robin.”

()()()

Robin finds Chrom already at the barracks, encouraging the sleepy—and cranky—Shepherds to get a move on to prepare for the march. She watches him for a moment, seeing his natural charisma and ease of familiarity with his comrades, and just seeing his confidence staves off a surprising amount of her own anxiety.

Chrom notices her, and his eyes brighten. “Robin, good morning.” He hurries over and puts his arm around her shoulder, as if he’s known her for years instead of days. “Supplies are already being put on the horses and the wagons. Will you help me go over the list one more time? I want to make sure we don’t run out of anything, and I trust you to keep everything in order.”

“Of course,” Robin says, falling into tactician mode and filing away her own inquiries away for later. “Lead the way.”

Chrom nods in earnest and takes Robin into the barracks. In the mess hall on one of the tables lay piles of documents listing what supplies were to be carried on one horse or another, or in the wagon. Robin sets to checking them over, comparing them with her own notes and sorting everything in her mind. She asks Chrom such things as how much weight the horses can handle; how long the march should be; and if there are towns along the way. She’s researched this herself already, but the thorough check puts her at ease, and Chrom answers readily, with an unspoken reassurance in his eyes.

Once the two finish checking the lists and the supplies themselves, they convene at the front of the barracks to start roll call. Robin frowns and calls out a “Kellam” first; a tall man clad in armor answers her, and her heart jumps into her throat. Several of the Shepherds around him startle as well, and Robin makes a mental note to keep an eye on his whereabouts.

“Mark!” she eventually calls, and curious gazes turn toward the masked teenager in their midst. Robin studies him, but all he does is shift his posture slightly. His lips purse, but it’s impossible to tell exactly what sort of expression lays hidden behind his mask.

In any case, Mark is without his weapons, and Frederick stands close by with his mare’s reins held in one hand and his lance in the other. If Mark has any hidden ill-will toward the Shepherds, he won’t be likely able to act on them.

When Robin finishes, Chrom adds, “Is everyone ready? We’ve a long march ahead of us, and knowing Feroxi diplomacy, we’re likely in for a match or two with the khans themselves.” He says that last part with a laugh.

“Then let’s get it over with already!” Sully calls out, and Vaike adds, “Let’s hurry up so I can kick some ass with my—with my… Hey, where’d my axe go?”

Chuckles go out around, and Miriel sighs before reminding Vaike that he had put the weapon in the wagon “on the off chance” that he might forget it somewhere. The laughter increases, and Vaike’s cheeks turn red as he goes to check the supplies.

Robin does her best to repress her smile, then rolls up the sheet in her hands. “All right, everyone: Into formation for the march!”

She forgets all about her earlier insecurities.

()()()

Robin walks up front with Mark, Chrom, and Frederick. Miriel was up there too for a time, telling Robin about each Shepherd's strength and weaknesses, but she quickly melted back into the main group. She seems far more curious about studying her fellow Shepherds for her own experiments than for planning tactics like she had done before Robin's arrival. Though Robin is grateful for the tactical know-how from the mage, she’s far more comfortable staying out of hearing range of Miriel’s extensive vocabulary that goes over even her head.

"...So," Mark says at length, startling Robin out of her thoughts concerning formations. He looks to Chrom. "Why am I coming with you to Regna Ferox?"

"Well," Chrom says with a slight laugh, looking toward the ever-present knight beside them. "Frederick the Wary here wanted to keep you in his sights at all times."

"Milord, please," Frederick says.

Chrom, smiling, continues, "Besides, Mark, I thought it would be a good idea to see how you stand up. I was impressed the first time I saw you fight, but that was only once. In any case, nothing builds trust like battling side by side."

 _That is right,_ Robin agrees silently, thinking about her time fighting beside him in Southtown. Still, the thought of fighting alongside Mark puts her on edge, even if they have decided to believe him.

"Trust," Mark repeats quietly.

“The most important thing,” Robin says, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead, “is that you speak with the khans if necessary. Forging an alliance with them is the best step we can make to move forward.”

“We were going to do it anyway, whether you came here or not,” Chrom adds, his voice much warmer than Robin’s. “With Plegia crossing our borders, it’ll be good to have Ferox on our side.”

“They’re very loyal,” Mark says, playing a little bit with the sleeve of his black coat. “We’ll need them on our side if we’re to survive.”

Robin shivers. _There he goes again…._

Mark falls into silence and looks down at his boots as they walk.

"...So, Mark," Chrom says eventually, and Mark quickly looks at him. But, before he can continue, the sound of galloping hooves reach their ears.

Sully and Stahl slow their horses as they approach. Stahl's face is a bit ashen, and Sully is scowling.

"Up ahead, at the bridge," she reports. "There's Risen crawling all over the place."

"Risen?" Chrom repeats.

"Not surprising," Mark says.

Robin immediately falls into tactician mode once more. "How far up are they?"

"About half a mile," Stahl answers.

Robin turns around to face the Shepherds. "All right everyone, we need to drop off our supplies with a guard. Does anyone volunteer?"

"I'll do it!" Sumia calls, and immediately starts unhitching supplies from Frederick's horse. The others hurry to do likewise, and Robin takes the moment to turn to Mark. She takes a breath.

"Here," she says, offering his tome from one of her pockets. "For the battle."

Mark's mouth drops a little in surprise as he takes the spell book. He inspects the cover, spine, and some of the pages to make sure nothing is amiss.

"I took the liberty of looking through it," Robin says. "My apologies. But those appear to be very powerful spells, all of a wide range. Did you write it yourself?"

"I had help," Mark replies, but doesn't elaborate. The silence rubs Robin the wrong way, but she ignores the feeling, as well as the unease she has at giving the boy a weapon.

"Mark, for the time being, we'll only allow you weapons in battle,” Chrom says, Robin noting that he for once seeming to have just the right amount of trust in someone else.

Mark nods. "Understood.”

"All right, everyone," Robin calls when she sees that the Shepherds are ready. "Vaike, Kellam, Chrom, Mark and I will take the front lines. Virion, Miriel, you're behind us. Lissa, stay in the back. Frederick, Sully, and Stahl are going to head northeast and come in from that direction once the fighting has begun. We'll take out whatever's in front of the bridge, then slowly make our way across so Lissa has time to heal us."

"Milord," Frederick begins, and once again Chrom doesn't let him finish.

"You heard our tactician." The prince softens a bit. "It's all right, Frederick. I can take care of myself."

The knight frowns, but finally goes to mount his mare. He shoots Mark a withering, deadly glare, then signals to the cavaliers. They leave the north road and head into the woods.

"All right, everyone, let's go!" Chrom calls, unsheathing Falchion. The Shepherds let out a cheer, though Robin notes that Mark stays silent.

The Shepherds take position and hurry along the road. Chrom turns to Robin and smiles. "This is your first real time leading the Shepherds. You up for it?"

Momentarily, she remembers the anxiety that clawed at her stomach that morning, but she pushes the thought away as much as she can. "You wouldn't have recruited me if I wasn't up for it," she replies, and Chrom laughs.

The sound instantly puts her doubtful thoughts at rest.

After a few minutes, the road begins to open up into a clearing. Robin holds up her arm, motioning the group to slow to a stop so she can survey the battlefield. There are Risen wandering about on both the near and far side of the river, most congregating around one large monster, like a leader.

_They’re pretty mindless if I remember right from the ones in the forest, so they should be bound to fall into disarray if that one is taken out._

Robin stands in front of the group, ready to speak—

Mark hesitates, then hurries to stand beside her, startling her into silence. He turns toward the Shepherds. "Risen are clumsier than people, but they're still dangerous. They tend to attack people with weaker defenses, or to gang up on soldiers. It’s best to stay in line formation with long-range attackers and healers behind."

The Shepherds stare at him, and Mark’s lips purse thin and white. He moves back to his spot beside Chrom and pulls out his tome.

The crown prince seems to be holding back a chuckle. "Thanks for the advice."

"No problem," Mark replies, though his voice is a bit shaky as he busies himself with opening his tome.

The sudden words shook Robin, but she pushes away her discomfort and stands up straighter. “You heard him. Stay in formation, and we’ll have  an easy battle. Remember not to let any of the Risen behind us.”

After taking one last look at the matchup, Robin lifts her arm and yells out. The Shepherds launch forward into the field, all of them calling out battle cries. The Risen turn their undead heads toward the Shepherds, and it's only seconds before they lurch forward. Robin pulls out her iron sword and batters a monster a few times, and then instantly, the remains turn to ash.

Beside her, it also takes Chrom a couple of hits to fell his first Risen. The prince shoots Robin a grin. “Good job!”

The praise makes Robin smile back, and she redoubles her efforts.

For every Risen she or Chrom or Vaike or Virion or anyone takes, however, Mark fells two with his tome.

()()()

The entire battle is over quickly, especially once Frederick, Sully, and Stahl arrive from the east. A well-aimed arrow from Virion fells the last of the Risen, but Robin orders the soldiers on foot to search the area and the mounted units to return for Sumia and the supplies. Within fifteen minutes the jobs are finished, and the Shepherds are reunited together on the road.

After a bit of deliberation, Robin and Chrom decide that they can all last another hour of travel before they’ll need to call it a day. After a quick refill of water at the river, the group continues on. Everyone's a little bit tired and a couple of people are nursing bruises that Lissa did her best to heal, but no one is critically injured in the slightest.

“You did a great job today,” Chrom says quietly to Robin as they march. “Most of them fought those monsters for the first time, but you led us excellently through it.”

 _Mark’s advice certainly helped,_ Robin thinks bitterly, but she holds her tongue. “Thank you, Chrom.”

“You’re welcome. Keep it up.” Chrom pulls away a little, then turns to Mark. "You really do fight well. But I suppose you've had a lot of practice."

"Thank you," Mark replies, once without any weapons on his person. He fiddles with his black coat again. "But yes. Those Risen were rather weak. The stronger Grima gets or the closer the Risen are to the Fell Dragon, the more formidable they are. Risen can also be summoned by a spellcaster, so it depends on their strength as well."

"We'll get better," Chrom says, and Robin marvels about how optimistic the prince can be.

"...Sparring might be a good idea," Chrom continues. "Would you like to, sometime? With swords, of course."

Mark sneaks a glance toward Frederick. "And if I try to kill you?"

Chrom laughs. "I don't think you will."

"Why?"

"Because you're trying to help us. That's good enough for me."

Robin wants to protest, that while she does believe Mark’s story, she can’t shake the feeling that he bears nothing but ill omens. But she can’t find it in her to say anything, since Chrom is putting his faith in her as well, a Plegian of all people.

"And if it's all a scheme?” Mark asks. “There are many things I can't tell you."

"You ask too many questions." Chrom frowns a little, pondering. "You have a point, but I don't think it's true. I trust my instincts."

Mark stays quiet.

"You didn't say whether you wanted to or not."

He jumps a little. "What?"

"A spar," Chrom reminds him. "Not tonight; it's getting dark. Perhaps when we camp next?"

Mark pauses, and then a wide smile breaks out on his face. "Of course."

Robin stares at him, then hurriedly pretends she hadn’t been—luckily, an easy feat, given Mark’s total attention on the prince. “Would you mind if I watched?” Robin asks.

“Of course not,” Chrom says.

Robin nods, then falls silent in thought.

The rest of the night is spent pitching tents and preparing for the next day; Stahl makes pleasant conversation with her, complimenting her on her leadership that day; Vaike elbows her in the ribs and reminds her not be afraid of “askin’ ol’ Teach for any advice”; Virion seeks her out to challenge her to a chess match, only to ask for a rain check when Sully drags him off for doing something sexist again.

Robin bathes quickly and heads back to her own tent. On the way, Chrom intercepts her and wishes her a good night. When she lays down on her bedroll and closes her eyes, she falls into sleep easily, but her dreams are filled with blue and black and masks, and the burning mark on the back of her hand.


	9. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina in Plegia.

_Second_

“There is no time to waste, my child.”

Grima led Lucina up to the dais of the Dragon’s Table. The Table stood on a raised platform, and in the center of the setting sat a giant, ornate silver goblet; from below, all that could be seen of its contents were tall, purple-and-white flames. Aside from the flutter of the air, there was no sound to indicate that it fed on something for fuel. Nevertheless, Lucina—in the depths of her shattered sanity—thought she heard something akin to a _silent_ scream.

“Come.”

Lucina blinked, realizing her mother had ascended a set of stairs leading up and onto the Dragon’s Table. The girl hurried to follow. Grima put her hands on the princess’s shoulders, turning her toward the flaming goblet.

Underneath the magical fire, the contents of the goblet churned like the oceans of Valm. The liquid—a mostly clear color, although it was tinged with a red-brown hue—seemed almost gaseous.

“You are of…imperfect blood,” Grima said, gesturing toward the liquid. “You will not be able to ingest it all, but what you will be able to have shall make you much, much stronger than you could possibly imagine. I shall have the rest, though it will not do much for me. None of _this_ amount could do much, thanks to those meddlesome humans your father led….”

Lucina’s eyes lit up. “This power—will it help us bring Father back?”

Grima paused, stroking her daughter’s hair. “Given enough time and effort, you shall see him again.”

Lucina let out a small giggle of happiness, then hurried to kneel at the cushion placed before the immense goblet. She felt no heat from the nearby flames; only a chill that suddenly brought up the images of glazed eyes—many, many pairs of—

“Drink, my child.”

Grima knelt beside her and handed her the silver ladle that had sat beside the goblet. Lucina took it in her unsteady fingers, but she gripped it hard and leaned over the edge to dip the utensil into the gaseous liquid.

She brought the substance to her lips, and her body started to seize.

Before she could drop the ladle, a hand reached out to grab it and her mouth, another going to tip her head back to force the concoction down her throat. Lucina sputtered and gagged on the much-too-hot, much-too-cold liquid; when the hands let go, she grabbed onto the edge of the goblet and coughed, hoping to vomit.

“You must drink more,” Grima said, though Lucina couldn’t even recognize her own mother’s voice.

Grima leaned out as well and filled the ladle with another serving. She moved it toward Lucina’s lips, but the girl jerked her face away.

“You must drink more,” Grima hissed, grabbing Lucina again and pulling her close.

“I don’t—!” Lucina began, but Grima took the opportunity to slip the liquid into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but Grima forced her mouth closed. Lucina had no choice but to swallow the rancid mixture.

“Mother,” she sputtered as Grima gathered up more. “Make—make it—!”

“Be a good girl, Lucina,” Grima said, then started the process anew.

Lucina lost track of most everything—how many times Grima forced her to drink, how many times she pleaded, how many times she felt hot tears spill from her eyes. She wanted to vomit, to expel the searing, freezing contents from her stomach, but the gaseous liquid remained stubbornly in her gut.

Finally, all at once, the sensation stopped.

Lucina’s vision flickered out, and she was only vaguely aware of hands rolling her body over and touching her face. She heard her mother’s voice but couldn’t make out the words; they seemed ancient, foreign. With each passing second, she felt heavier, as if she were sinking deeper and deeper into the fathoms of the Valmese Sea, far away from any other human being.

Something _else_ enveloped her soul in rough, cold hands.

When Lucina opened her eyes again, her left iris was dim, and her right shone with the Mark of Grima around her pupil.

“You awaken,” Grima incarnate said, rising to her feet.

Lucina—no longer the Ylissean princess, but a different being altogether—blinked slowly to adjust to the haze of light coming from the flames above the goblet. Her body felt heavy, but energized, like lightning bolts were dancing through her veins. Had she not finished her feast of Plegian souls, her limbs would have felt electrocuted by such energy, burning her until she died.

“My child, we cannot waste time,” Grima said, holding out her Marked hand.

Lucina blinked once more, and then took her mother’s hand—her mother, her lord, almost her other self, as they were both vessels bent to Grima’s will, if only the once-Robin at a greater height of power and control over her.

“Follow me, child.” Once Lucina was standing, Grima turned and walked down the steps of the Dragon’s Table, then moved toward a door in the back of the cathedral’s hall. Lucina followed close behind.

They passed through a series of cramped, damp hallways, almost like a maze. Finally, they emerged into a private study, adorned with gold and silver and gems in the bookcases, the desk, and even the floor itself. Grima walked toward the western wall and placed her hand upon it.

“You know of my bones? The ones that make up this capital city,” she began as parts of the wall began to move, responding to the dark magic in her body. “In the skull, you will find a tooth missing. Eons ago, the hero of Naga used one of her own fangs to fashion the sword her successor uses. I did the same, to rival her with my own hero. He did not live.”

Lucina listened quietly, only watching as her mother produced a long, obsidian box from the magic-crumbled wall. Grima placed the box on the desk and opened it.

“An exaltation would need to be done to outmatch the power of Falchion, yet I am not strong enough. Though, I imagine Falchion’s power has faded from its exalted status now that its owner is dead.” Grima pulled a dark gold sheathe, housing a sword, into her hands. She turned to her daughter and presented it to her. “Use Erebus, my child.”

Lucina stared at the weapon, then took it into her own grip and studied its weight. She held the sheathe in her left hand, the handle in her right, and then unsheathed Erebus. The hilt’s handle was wrapped with dark red and gold; its blade shone black, with golden trails etched into it. The tip of the sword flared slightly, producing a dagger-like point on the end.

“This shall help me?” Lucina asked, her voice quiet.

“Erebus shall be your guide, yes,” Grima answered. She came forward and put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Erebus is chaos, darkness, destruction. Follow it, and we shall create this world anew.”

“…Father will come back, correct?”

Grima studied the young woman. Her eyes stared only at the sword. Her grip was tight on the weapon and its sheathe. Her gaze was blank, but her pupil blazed with the Mark of Grima.

“He shall, yes.”

Lucina sheathed Erebus and placed the sword in her belt. Then, she knelt onto the floor before her mother and master, her head lowered. “What must I do?”

“Pursue the remaining Shepherds,” Grima said without hesitation. “They may petition Naga for help once again, perhaps travel to another world and time. You must stop them with whatever means necessary. You must kill them. If they manage to escape you…do not disappoint me.”

She put her hand on Lucina’s head. “Your face is ashen, my child. Soon the power will fully settle within you. When you draw your power, no one shall mistake you for anything but Grimleal, anything but my daughter. Do not fail me. You have the means necessary to do whatever you set your sights to.”

“And you, Master?”

“I shall remain here and gather more of my strength. Should you slay them all, return here, and all that will be needed will be a plan to bring more souls into my being; otherwise, I cannot conjure my dragon form.” Grima contemplates for a moment. “Should Naga once again put her followers into the past, you must go after them and wait for me there with the Grimleal. I shall follow soon after. Going to the past will take some of my energy, but I trust you to be able to gather more souls for my consumption and to prepare the way for this world’s purge.”

Lucina nodded. “Understood.”

“Rise to your feet.”

Lucina followed the order, and Grima put her hand on the girl’s cheek. She smiled.

“I’m trusting in you,” she said, her voice so much like Robin’s once was, when Lucina was a little girl running to her parents from the terror of a nightmare.

()()()

Lucina stands amidst the sands and scraggy weeds of the Plegian desert. Despite half her bloodline originating from this arid place, the weather doesn’t suit her body; sweat beads off her pale skin, staining her clothing in some parts. She brushes some hair out of her face and shields her eyes from the sun.

“There,” Henry says, pointing. In the haze of the desert, something shows up on the horizon, but the visage shimmers almost as if it isn’t truly there. “That’s the capital. We should reach there by the time the moon starts to rise on up into the sky,” he finishes in a sing-song manner.

“Good,” is all Lucina comments on the matter. She retrieves her water skin and allots herself just a bit of the precious liquid. She won’t die from dehydration, of that she’s sure, but putting too much strain on her body would be a cause for the quick depletion of the souls running through her veins. Such action would be childish and wasteful.

Henry takes a swig of his own water skin, but by the time he finishes, Lucina is already on her way through the sand once more. He jogs a little through the shifting dunes, experience keeping him from falling onto the scorching ground. He’s cast a hex to keep them safe from burns, be they from the sun or the earth, but instinct keeps him standing.

“So,” Henry says after a few minutes of silence. He holds his hands behind his back. “What’re you going to make the hierophant do, Miss Grima?”

“Do not refer to me as ‘Grima.’”

“Ah, sorry. Then…?”

“You may call me ‘milady.’ My name is Lucina.”

“’Milady’…? That’s not a very fun-sounding title, though…. What about ‘Luci’?”

Lucina scoffs and levels a glare at him. Were he anyone else, she would have leveled Erebus at him instead. “Do not call me ‘Luci’ either.”

“Aw, but ‘Luci’ sounds cute!”

“Do you have a death wish?” she spits.

“Hmm, maybe~!”

She turns her head away. He had not—will not—in the future, she remembers.

()()()

They arrive at the capital under the cover of nightfall. The walls of the city are made up of the outer rim of buildings, interspersed with the towering bones of Grima’s dragon body long past. Some deep emotion spread through Lucina’s limbs at the sight of the moonlit skeleton; her body feels more powerful, more alert, something she thought not possible after receiving her new power and self.

“The cathedral is on the cliff overlooking everything,” Henry says, pointing off toward the right of the front gates. A path, marked on the edges by bones, follows the outer edge of the city, up a set of stairs that grow considerably steep. “Well, the main cathedral. There’s another one inside the gates, but—Hey, where are you going?”

Lucina ignores him after hearing his directions and goes off toward the path. While she’s been to this city before of course, she has never approached the head cathedral from lower ground. She follows the pathway, heedless of Henry trailing after her and cautioning her about the Plegian guards.

She’s the daughter of a god incarnate, for Grima’s sake. What reason has she to worry about the affairs of her lord’s fodder?

After ascending the staircase, she finds herself atop the plateau overlooking the city. Were it not for the capital’s strong force of warriors and mages, she would scoff at the city’s poor overhead defenses—not that she wouldn’t bring it up to whoever the general in charge is. But instead of mulling over the issue, she walks across the dirt-brick path toward the entrance of the church.

The building is expansive and wide; most of the area is flat and one-floored above the surface. However, in the center of the citadel, the building rises up considerably, mounding high to accommodate for the main area inside leading to the Dragon’s Table. A crude-looking cross of bone and dirt rises into the sky, a symbol for Grima’s annihilation of the world and the coming resurrection of it.

Outside the main doors stand two guards, dressed in the robes of high-ranking mages. As Lucina approaches, they withdraw dark tomes and each lift a hand toward her.

“Who are you?” the taller asks, his voice high and reedy. “State your purpose.”

Instead of giving a verbal answer, Lucina draws Erebus from its sheathe. Power surges from the blade into her hand; her face heats as her tattoos appear on her skin, and she can nearly see the red light flashing from her right eye.

Immediately, the mages shrink back from the Mark of Grima. Words of shock and awe pass their lips, but Lucina pays no heed to them. Without bothering to sheathe Erebus, she motions for Henry to follow her and pushes the main doors open herself.

“M-Master,” one of the mages stammers, scurrying to her side but keeping bowed. “You do not need to sully your hands doing things your—”

“Bring the hierophant to me,” Lucina says as she starts walking along the center aisle of the main hall, her heels clacking against the marble. She steps past the place where at one time—in one time, _more_ than one time—her father’s body lay dead. “Do not keep me waiting.”

“Of course!” The mage hurries off.

The other man comes up to her side. “Is there anything I can get for you, Master?”

“Resting quarters, and…”

Lucina slows to a stop, then turns to look back at Henry. For the first time, he is truly quiet. He is frowning, he seems small… Her mind conjures up the image of his son.

“…quarters for my guide as well,” she adds before turning around and continuing toward the unlit, unprepared Dragon’s Table. Her hand tightly grips Erebus’s handle.

She is about to ascend the stairs to the Table when the doors at the back of the hall open. Validar stands in the doorway, stock still with his mouth hanging open.

“You are not my daughter,” the hierophant sputters when he finally regains his voice. He takes shaky steps toward her. “Yet you…”

“I am not truly Grima, nor your daughter.” Lucina smiles, but the gesture is far from warm. She sheathes Erebus, causing the tattoos to fade from her face for the moment and her Mark of Grima to dim slightly.  “You do not remember me, but it is good to see you, Grandfather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference, Lucina's body is currently working similarly to Greedling's in FMA/B--feeding off of souls, her true consciousness mostly subjugated. Grima's power is providing most of the changes to her (her Fell Blood mostly), so there's muddled-ness around her "Grima-ness."
> 
> thank you god for nanowrimo giving me the motivation to actually write instead of playing video games (which I did earlier, hence why I'm up past my bedtime)


	10. x.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was going to make the flashback scene contain far more poignant details to the plot, but it didn't fit in with the rest of the chapter very much and I'm pushing it back to come in maybe one or two more Morgan-centered chapters. the reveal should be a doozy I hope...I hope...
> 
> Merry Christmas, here's a not-as-angsty-chapter-as-it-could've-been present for you to celebrate. (Non-Christmas celebrators, just take my damn gift while you still can because man am I planning for some angst.)

_second_

"I cannot believe such a false accusation against my father!" Owain put his hands on his hips. "The father of the scion of legend would never lose against the likes of you! Er... Not to be rude, Lucina."

The princess laughed at her cousin's antics. "No, no, it's all right. I can't believe I won against Lon'qu either."

Morgan was chewing on a piece of stale bread, but he still said, "Lushina, t'll th' shtory! T'll i'!"

"Maybe you should learn to speak  _after_  swallowing your food," Severa said, disgusted. Morgan swallowed his food and smiled brightly at her, causing her to roll her eyes.

Yarne tentatively poked the campfire with a stick. "We should get to bed soon. It's dark out. We have to be up in the morning. Did I mention it's dark out?"

Cynthia nudged him. She grinned. "Don't worry, the Justice Cabal will protect you from all the monsters!"

"I-I didn't say I was scared of the dark!" Yarne stammered as Owain and Morgan raised their fists and shouted "Justice Cabal!"

Lucina laughed. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

A chorus of "I do!" came from Morgan, Cynthia, and Nah. The half-manakete turned to Gerome and pouted when the wyvern rider didn't show any interest in joining in.

Owain turned up his nose. "I, scion of legend, cannot deign to listen to a story which mocks my father!"

"Fine, fine!" Lucina conceded. She was smiling widely. "But as soon as he got close to me he must have realized I was a woman somehow, because he could hardly—"

"That is it!" Owain jumped from his seat on a log and drew his sword –Yarne hurried to hide behind Cynthia. "Dear cousin, I am afraid I must challenge you to a duel. My sword hand itches to fight for my father's honor!"

"Oh, really?" Lucina smirked and stood, slowly pulling Falchion from its sheathe. "You truly want a duel?"

"Kick his butt, Sister!" Morgan cheered, and Brady called, "Watch ya head, Owain!"

"Hey."

All sound stopped and heads turned to the outer edge of the firelight. There stood Lon'qu, a frown on his face. He held a knife and a half-peeled potato in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of his son and niece squaring off.

"Don't fight here," he said. "You'll end up falling in the campfire."

Morgan and a few of the other children erupted into laughter, desperately trying not to reveal the subject of the duel, and Owain stuttered, "F-Father, please, like  _I_ could ever do something so outrageously clumsy!"

Lon'qu ignored his words. He grimaced a little at the loud noise. "Don't you children have bedtimes?"

"Don't get him started on that!" Severa moaned, but Owain was already eloquently proclaiming that "Scions of legend do not require bedtimes," and then, when Lon'qu gave a rebuttal: "But Mom said I could stay up late!"

Lucina sheathed Falchion. "Maybe we should  _all_  get some sleep," she agreed, smiling.

"Tomorrow we hit th' road again," Brady added, getting up.

Morgan stood and held his hand out to Severa. The redhead, frowning, considered his hand for a moment before grabbing it with her own and letting him help her up.

"You're welcome," he said with a grin when she didn't thank him.

"You're such a happy-go-lucky idiot," she muttered, crossing her arms.

He grinned. "That's what I'm here for."

She rolled her eyes, then turned to continue watching Owain make a fool of himself. Morgan saw the hints of a small smile playing on her lips.

 ()()()

“Thanks for cooking, Stahl,” Robin says, ladling some of the pot’s contents into a bowl and taking a seat beside Chrom. Morgan watches them, noticing how at ease they seem with each other already, despite the space that separates them.

He sits beside the campfire. He wants nothing more than to inhale his stew and retreat to his tent, but the meal is too hot. He resorts to swirling his food around and hoping that the others will ignore him just as he is ignoring them.

But of course, that isn’t the case.

“Hey, Masky,” Vaike says, leaning forward where he sits on the other side of the fire.

Morgan looks up. “…Yes?”

“Sully here’s gotta be lyin’ to ol’ Teach,” the axeman says. “You can’t be from the future.”

“Jeez, Vaike, Chrom told you this too,” Sully grumbles. “This’s getting old.”

What she says makes it seem like she doesn’t think much of it all, but her eyes turn to Morgan. In fact, most if not all of the Shepherds eating dinner have turned their attention to him.

Morgan shifts. “Well, Vaike? Do you doubt Sully and Chrom?”

“It’s not that I _doubt_ them! I doubt this wacko story!” Vaike shakes his spoon at Morgan. “Ol’ Teach needs _proof_.”

“Vaike,” Chrom says a bit tiredly, but at the same time he’s smiling at the antics of his old friend. “His Falchion is the same as mine. Also: _Mark_ has a _name_.”

Vaike shrugs. “Could be a fake! He’s a mage too, ya know!”

“…So, what?” Stahl asks. “You want him to tell us our fortunes?”

Morgan’s stomach twists and he isn’t sure whether he wants to eat anymore. Still, he forces more hot stew into his mouth to avoid speaking.

“Fortunes?” Sumia’s eyes light up like stars. Virion’s do, too.

“We cannot prove the validity of the fortunes,” Miriel points out, and Vaike adds, “Yeah, what she said.”

Some of the Shepherds start laughing; all seem to be enjoying the banter, but Morgan keeps quiet. When he finally forces down the last of Stahl’s stew, he looks up.

A fact pops into his head, and at once his nervousness abates in favor of an old, half-familiar playfulness. “You want information, then,” he says, and Vaike turns to him. “Not something you do in the future, but something you know now. Something only you know.”

“Yeah, yeah!” The blond man pounds his fists against his knees in excitement. “That’s perfect!”

“You sure?”

Vaike nods enthusiastically. “Prove yourself to Ol’ Teach!”

Morgan tries to suppress his grin. “On trips, you spy on the women when they’re bathing.”

Vaike drops his spoon, and suddenly finds himself surrounded by not only the majority of the female Shepherds, but also by Chrom and Frederick. Morgan can’t help the chuckles that escape his mouth as Vaike gets bombarded. As casually as he can, Morgan stands and puts his bowl and spoon in the cleaning bucket and leaves. From his tent he can still hear the arguments going on, but the volume is diminishing. He lets out another laugh as he descends to his bedroll.

It’s been too long since he last laughed.

()()()

The next day brings another long march, but this time no Risen whatsoever cross their path. Chrom congratulates everyone on how well they’re making time—by tomorrow, they’ll be at the border. Morgan still wishes they all had horses.

After the so-called _Vaike Incident_ , the Shepherds are starting to warm up toward Morgan—except Vaike, that is, since he’s been exempted from training for a few days as punishment and set on guard duty. Not to mention he’s the scorn of all the women in camp. In any case, Morgan appreciates the attempts at conversation from the Shepherds, but at the same time he’s too nervous to speak on a large amount of topics for fear of bringing up something that hasn’t happened yet. So, he mostly stays quiet unless spoken to.

He also keeps recalling the sights of gruesome, fatal wounds on these people, and it scares him.

That afternoon, Morgan is in the middle of setting up his tent when the sound of footsteps distracts him. He looks up to see his father standing beside him.

“Did you forget about our spar?” Chrom asks. He’s holding out the second-world Falchion. “We only have so much time left before nightfall.”

Morgan blinks in astonishment, realizing that he did forget. He stands and accepts Falchion, then follows his father to the edge of camp.

“I didn’t realize you had this with you,” Morgan says, sliding sword and sheath into his belt.

“I wanted to make sure you could properly defend yourself in case something happened,” Chrom says. “…And maybe for an occasion like this.”

Kellam, Sully, and Sumia are already training; Kellam’s stripped himself of his armor to practice throwing javelins toward the woods, and he looks like a totally different person. Sully is giving Sumia pointers on fighting with lances from horseback, since they found an abandoned pegasus earlier that day that Sumia hurriedly took a liking to, but both women keep glancing toward Kellam like they’re unsure about who he is.

Chrom leads Morgan toward an unused area and draws Falchion to hold it in a two-handed grip. Morgan follows suit, feeling an excited tension well up inside him. He thinks he sees the smallest of smiles on his father’s face, but then Chrom is attacking.

The prince moves in to strike downward, and Morgan darts forward. He ducks and moves to hit from behind, but Chrom has already executed a forward roll to get away. Morgan pursues, but Chrom turns back toward him and blocks the attack, easily knocking the second-world Falchion aside; Morgan barely holds onto it.

Chrom presses forward, forcing Morgan to act defensively. His hands feel numb from the force of his father’s attacks. If Chrom is one thing, he’s powerful.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Chrom taunts, and though he’s starting to sweat and pant, there’s a grin on his lips.

Morgan grits his teeth. When Chrom tries to land another blow, he deflects it with all his might. Chrom falls toward one side and Morgan brings Falchion up toward his father’s neck, but the prince uses his momentum to duck into another roll. Morgan turns to follow, slicing at Chrom’s leg, but already Chrom is back on his feet and out of range. Morgan hisses a curse and darts forward to put his father on the defensive this time.

The mock battle wages on for several more minutes. Neither is able to take advantage of the other for long enough to execute a finishing move. Morgan has the upper hand in actual combat experience, but Chrom is the true swordsman, not to mention he’s superior in both strength and weight.

Finally, the two step back. Morgan’s throat is painfully dry and he can’t quite feel his fingers. His chest is heaving for breath, but so is his father’s.

Chrom lowers his sword a little. “How about a draw for now?”

The offer surprises Morgan. “A draw?” When Chrom nods, he considers it, then sheathes Falchion.

“I’ll take a draw,” he says, finding himself laughing. “I’ve never won against you anyway, F—”

He stops.

Chrom’s eyebrows knit together, and Morgan’s heart jumps into his throat. He looks away.

“F-for we’ve sparred like this in the second world,” Morgan says, cursing himself, but before either of them can continue, Frederick comes rushing onto the scene.

“Milord!” He hurries over to Chrom. “What are you thinking?!”

Morgan sighs and holds out his sheathed Falchion. Honestly, he’s surprised Frederick didn’t find them sooner. “Better take this from me before I decide to assassinate Chrom right in front of you, huh?”

Frederick scowls and snatches the weapon away. Morgan adjusts his hood and turns from them, back toward camp. Chrom starts to say something, but Morgan doesn’t reply.

He didn’t notice the crowd they drew, lined up by the rows of tents. Miriel is taking notes by her tent, Stahl standing next to her and clapping a bit for Morgan as he passes by. Morgan nods, his mood now a bit too foul to allow for any sheepish pride.

He stops to get his bearings, and that’s when he notices Robin standing among the tents, with a clear view of the field. She has been watching.

He expects her to praise him. He wants to beam at her and run up to her like he’s still a small child, he wants her to smile in return and ruffle his hair.

But she just nods a little, her brows drawn together, and admits, “Impressive.”

It’s too much.

He just barely manages to keep silent before he turns and hurries toward the stream they camped beside. He goes a bit downstream, behind the line of trees, and kneels on the bank to splash water on his face.

 _It’s not her,_ he tells himself, pressing his mask into his skin. _It’s not Mother. It’s not Father. Not the ones I knew. Don’t be disappointed. Don’t be disappointed. They’re not them._

His breathing is erratic, sometimes sucking the water on his hands into his mouth. He focuses on trying to control it. He can’t let himself break down like this.

After a few minutes, he finally calms down enough to wipe the water off his face. He rubs his temple, breathing in deeply a few more times, then slowly stands. He’s a bit lightheaded.

“I should go talk to them about what we should say to the khans,” he mutters, pressing his mask into his skin again before he heads back to camp.

 ()()()

They reach the Feroxi border the next day, the climate now considerably colder despite the summer sun. The captain of the border guard hardly believes them when they say they’re Ylissean royalty and challenges them to battle. Robin devises quick tactics, and the struggle is won without any major casualties.

Captain Raimi hurriedly apologizes, and arranges for the Shepherds to be escorted to the capital. It’s another couple days of walking, but when they reach Arena Ferox, they’re set up with comfortable—if a bit drafty—rooms, though the lower-ranking Shepherds have to double-up.

After a quick rest, despite the hour growing late, the East-Khan Flavia receives them in the throne room.

“I apologize for the troubles at the border, Prince Chrom,” she says, though somehow the way she says it reveals the pride she has in Raimi. “You are welcome in Regna Ferox.”

Chrom nods, still a bit preoccupied with Flavia’s powerful stature and the weapons at her hips. “Thank you, but I’m confident we can put that misunderstanding behind us.”

“I assume you are here because Plegians are also sending bandits into your border towns?” Flavia says. “We found documents on corpses proving that they’ve been masquerading as Ylisseans while attacking us. Plegia must see some benefit in raising tensions between your kingdom and ours.”

“Damn them,” Chrom spits, earning a laugh from Flavia that makes him flustered by his own outburst. He glances at Morgan. “That, and…” He speaks carefully. “There are other matters as well, best discussed in someplace not so open. But yes, everything requires cooperation between our troops.”

Flavia puts her hands on her hips and carefully studies the group, her eyes lingering on Morgan. “I assume whatever else you have to say includes something about why this boy is wearing a mask?”

“Well, yes,” Chrom says.

“It’s a good think I like you so much already,” she laughs. After a few seconds of thought, she adds, “I’m afraid I cannot provide you troops at the moment. I lack the authority—I am not the reigning khan. Whatever more you have to say about your… _other_ matters can wait. Tell you what,” she adds, a smile forming on her face. “I’ll give you a proposition. I don’t suppose you understand Feroxi politics, do you?”

()()()

The arena is set up to house thousands upon thousands of spectators. The crowd roars as mock battles take place below them. Morgan sits next to Kellam, Virion, Sumia, and Miriel, who have been chosen to sit out of the upcoming battle as only a limited number of participants can champion for a khan. He watches the spectacle below; though it’s mostly for sport and the warriors aren’t trying to kill each other, they’re still spilling a lot of blood.

Kellam seems to be thinking along the same lines as he is. “I can’t believe this is regular for the Feroxi.”

“It is truly an interesting phenomenon,” Miriel says, jotting down words in a notebook using one of her inventions—a pen that holds its own ink rather than needing to be dipped into a well consistently. “I would conjecture that it’s mostly tradition-oriented. Perhaps this originated from a history of civil war? I wonder if they carry out capital punishment in this manner, too…”

She continues to jabber on, but Morgan tunes her out as the battles start to end and people come in to take care of the wounded and clean up the battlefield. The crowd quiets to a dull roar, the tension growing as the wait for the champions’ battle becomes shorter.

For a moment, Morgan loses himself in a memory, a story that both his father and Lucina told him back in the second timeline about their battle here in Arena Ferox. Their eyes shone and they laughed as they recounted their duel, though the memory was more bittersweet for Lucina. After all, she had been wearing a mask during that time.

Morgan closes his eyes. _Where are you?_ he wonders, thinking of his sister’s face as it once was, before her transformation to become Grima’s minion. _Are you still inside of that body, somewhere? Or has Grima killed you?_

More questions rise in his mind: Where is Lucina right now, physically? Somewhere in Ylisse? Did she go to Plegia? For all he knows, she may have followed them into Ferox—

He panics, opening his eyes and leaning forward to grab onto the railing keeping spectators from jumping down the steep drop into the arena. He watches the western gate intently, not even daring to blink or breathe.

Finally, from the western side, a small force comes out into the arena, headed by Lon’qu.

A sigh of relief escapes him, and he leans back into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Are you all right?” Sumia asks, but he just nods.

The crowd cheers and Morgan looks back at the battlefield. It’s odd, because from so far away it seems as if he’s looking at Owain, not his father. Morgan shakes his head to rid himself of the image, and nearly misses when the eastern champions enter the arena.

His hands clench as he watching the opposing teams line up. An announcer makes his way to the center of the battlefield, though he can barely be heard above the din. However, Morgan knows what he’s saying: There is to be no deliberate killing—though that doesn’t mean no one will die; that no one but the main champions may fight each other, and healers cannot aid them unless they are on the verge of death; and, of course, that the winners determine who the next reigning khan will be.

When he’s finished, the man retreats and there’s a long whistle, signaling the beginning of the battle.

Robin immediately whistles herself, signaling to the Shepherds. Lissa hops onto Frederick’s horse behind him, and together with Stahl and Sully, the cavaliers ride counterclockwise around the arena to meet the Feroxi warriors in battle. Vaike and Robin go the other way, and Morgan swears he can hear Vaike laugh as he readies a hammer toward an armored knight.

Chrom unsheathes Falchion and readies it in both hands as he approaches Lon’qu. Lon’qu does the same, making his stance low and lining his sword up at his shoulder height. They regard each other for a moment, and then one of them moves—Morgan isn’t sure who moves first—and suddenly their battle is a whirlwind of slashes and parries and ducking and rolling.

Morgan can’t tear his eyes away from the duel.

He recognizes the moves Chrom used on him earlier. Lon’qu’s style is the same as Morgan remembers, more precise than Owain’s and perhaps less powerful, but still incredibly effective. Chrom’s brute power seems to be wearing down the Feroxi warrior little by little, though Chrom is starting to bleed from scratches close to his ribs.

After several long minutes of battle, Lon’qu goes in for a direct stab at Chrom’s side, but the prince parries the blow with such force that he leans a little off-balance. Lon’qu hurries to regain his own footing to gain the advantage, but Chrom has already used his momentum to roll around to Lon’qu’s backside. The Feroxi whirls around, but Chrom grabs his sword hand and points Falchion at his neck.

Lon’qu freezes, then drops his sword.

If the crowd was loud before, it’s now near-deafening. Morgan watches as Chrom sheathes Falchion and holds out his hand to Lon’qu; after a moment, the swordsman accepts the handshake stiffly.

Someone puts their hand on Morgan’s shoulder, and he realizes that sometime during the fight, he stood up. He turns to see Sumia studying him with a frown on her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks.

“Thank you for your concern,” he says, because while yes, a wyvern’s weight of stress has been lifted from his shoulders just now, he doesn’t want to lie to her.


	11. xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving aid from Regna Ferox, the Shepherds begin their return to Ylisstol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in December, someone commented along the lines of "It's been a year since you updated, are you ever going to again?" and my first thought was "pfft, no, all my ideas left" but then I reread what I had written and I figured, I might as well at least try to keep going. 
> 
> I honestly can't make promises anymore (re: all my unfinished works), but I'm currently trying to hammer out the details of the latter half when inspiration strikes. Reviews and words of encouragement always help, though.

_first, second,_ and _third_

Robin’s nose was stuck in her book. Despite her and her mother’s care for it, the cover was starting to wear and the pages were beginning to yellow. Moving so often caused even their more treasured belongings to corrode, but that didn’t stop Robin from reading and rereading whatever they had.

The tome was home to electricity spells, ranging from beginner to intermediate levels. She had mastered nearly all of them, but there was no shame in reaffirming one’s basics—her mother made sure she knew that. Besides, their handful of other books were all on tactics; Robin had to learn other types of spells directly from her mother.

She sat outside, under the slight overhang in front of their small home to escape the sun without having to stay inside. Their horse snorted and nibbled on his hay, stomping his hoof against the dusty ground in his makeshift stall between houses. A few children, a year or two younger than Robin, ran up the street and grinned at him, holding out their hands. Robin looked up at their giggles as their horse leaned down and sniffed their palms, coming away with one or two lumps of sugar.

 She opened her mouth to say something, but then one of the children caught her glance. He quickly looked away, but then peered back as if she wouldn’t notice.

The older boy, seemingly bolder, caught sight of her and walked over. “What’re you readin’?”

Robin tilted the book to show them its pages. “It’s a tome about magic.”

The girl peered at it. “Whoa… You can read this?”

“Ah, yeah.” Robin nodded. “It’s all in the ancient language.”

“I can barely even read Plegian,” the older boy said. “But I’m good at numbers, not like Siun.”

“Hey…!” The younger boy, Siun, pouted. “They’re hard!”

Robin opened her mouth to speak, but the boys quickly dissolved into an argument. The little girl ignored her friends and looked back to Robin’s book. “Hey, can you show us?”

“Um… I’m not supposed to,” Robin admitted, almost muttering. “I would, but Mother—”

“Mother what, now?” someone said, and Robin’s head snapped up to see Morgana coming up the cramped street to stop in front of their home. The woman’s silver hair stuck to her sweaty forehead and her arms were full with cheap breads and browning fruit.

“N-nothing,” Robin stammered as the children hurriedly made way for Morgana to get through.

“Good,” Morgana answered, and she nodded toward the door; Robin hurriedly stood to open it for her. “Magic is for practice, work, and self-defense only; it’s not a show.”

Robin nodded. “I know, Mother.”

The kids hung around in the doorway. The oldest boy pouted. “We can’t see?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” Morgana answered, putting her things on the table. She looked back toward the children. Her voice became softer. “It’s very easy to get hurt accidentally by magic.”

The oldest boy’s cheeks puffed out, and he carelessly kicked his foot against the ground. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Robin said, reaching out, but the boy was already darting out of the house. The other two children cast her one more look before hurrying after their friend.

Morgana raised an eyebrow at Robin’s frown. “Something wrong?”

Robin looked down and hurried to start putting away the food her mother had bought. “They were the first kids here to talk to me.”

“Maybe they’ll come back sometime. They seemed to like you. And old Oscar too, for that matter,” she added when their horse snorted from outside.

“Maybe,” Robin said, but she doubted it. They had seemed more interested in her tome than her, and like most kids that had talked to her throughout her life since she could first remember moving around to avoid the draft, they had lost interest in her soon after she said she couldn’t show them magic.

She was putting a handful of vegetables into the cold box when a thought occurred to her. “Mother, why did you teach me magic? And tactics, for that matter?”

“I told you, magic’s for defense,” Morgana replied, but as always, her words were a bit too quick. “And there are other uses as well, like fire magic for keeping warm. More complex spells can help with crops…”

Morgana trailed off, seemingly busy with organizing ingredients for dinner. Robin bit back a sigh. “And tactics, then?”

“To keep your mind sharp and to help you think light on your feet.” Morgana still wasn’t looking at her. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just…normal people don’t learn magic. Tomes are expensive. And that’s not saying anything about tactics. That boy said he barely could read Plegian, while I can read Plegian, the Common, and the ancient language. I’m only fourteen.”

“Listen, little bird.” Morgana finally slowed to a stop. “You _are_ just like everyone else outside that door, you know. Those kids—their parents are teaching them their trade, just like I’ve taught you mine. Maybe where we are right now isn’t the best fit for it, but one day, it’ll all come around.”

Robin bit her lip and crossed her arms, as if hugging herself. “…The draft has slowed down, Mother. Things are tenuous with Ylisse, but we’re not at war anymore. I don’t… I don’t think we should avoid the draft, when our skills are for war.”

“Robin.” Morgana’s voice was edged, her body tense beneath her coat. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Well, then what are we supposed to do?”

“Anything but wage war, if we can help it.”

This didn’t make any sense, but Robin knew that if she said anything, the conversation would just go in circles. “Where did you even learn magic and tactics?” she asked, frustrated, but she didn’t expect an answer.

Morgana turned away and didn’t give her one.

()()()

Robin wipes sweat from her face with a rough towel as soon as they return to the ready room from the arena. Vaike laughs loudly and slaps Chrom on the back: “Good job out there, Princey!”

“Ya did a good job,” Sully agrees, punching Chrom’s arm. He winces, but he’s smiling, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“Everyone did a good job,” Robin says, putting her hands on her hips and grinning. “Vaike, you were great at fending off that lancer from Stahl. And Stahl, you did well to cover Sully’s blind spots.”

Vaike’s chest puffs out, while Stahl nods a bit shyly and says, “I don’t think we’d all be working so well without you to guide us.”

Robin blinks, taken aback, and Chrom takes a step forward. “He’s right. Well, not that we were terrible before you came, or anything.” He chuckles. “You do a good job directing our talents to where they need to be.”

Robin’s face is a bit hot, and it only grows worse when the others add in their agreements—even Frederick begrudgingly gives her a word of praise. She looks down, trying to put her thoughts together, but all she can come up with is “Thank you, everyone.”

The warm feeling that spreads through her chest is something she hasn’t felt in a long time. She feels almost like a child again, being praised by her mother for a job well done on one of her tactics tests. She feels proud, and almost invincible.

Before the conversation can continue, a knock sounds at the door. Stahl, the closest, opens it; a messenger enters, bowing his head slightly in the Feroxian style.

“Khan Flavia would like to congratulate you on the victory. After you have cleaned up, she would have me escort Prince Chrom, the Lady Robin, and the Lord Mark to her meeting chambers.” He notices Frederick’s frown deepen, and adds, “And the most trusted members of their party, as well.”

Robin looks toward Chrom. His expression has fallen into a thin line, and Robin can feel her own joy dropping down past her stomach as reality sets back into place.

()()()

Flavia may not have had her coronation yet, but she has no trouble sitting in her ornate chair in the meeting chambers like she’s owned it all her life. Like most Feroxian décor, it’s red and bronze, but the cushions seem softer than anything Robin has seen since leaving Ylisstol. Flavia sits almost sideways, one elbow on the armrest, her cheek resting on her fist. Her eyes are furrowed.

“You mean to tell me,” she says, slowly and tensely, as if explaining something to a misbehaving child. “That this Mark is from the future; that a crazed, powerful warrior basically came with him; and that we must prepare for Grima’s arrival.”

To Mark’s credit, he’s facing right back at the khan-to-be, although Robin cannot tell where his gaze falls behind his mask. “You are correct.”

“We realize how…hard to believe this is,” Robin begins. “But—”

“You’re damn right it is.”

“Khan Flavia,” Chrom says. His lips are set into a thin frown. “We can prove that Mark is from the future, at the very least.” He stands and pulls Falchion and its sheathe from his belt, placing it on the table. Frederick supplies him with Mark’s wrapped-up copy. Chrom is rough with most items, a trait that Robin’s picked up on, but his hands are gentle as he untangles the second Falchion and presents it to the khan.

“They are exactly alike, aside from the wear of the grip on Mark’s.” He points along the hilt. “Falchion is a unique weapon from my bloodline. There should not be a copy of the same make and power, yet here it exists.”

Flavia lifts an eyebrow and leans forward to peer at the swords. She looks to Chrom for permission before taking one into her hands and examining at every angle before moving on to the next. After several minutes, she puts the second Falchion down and sits back in her chair, a finger at her temple.

“They are as exact as you say,” she admits. “And I am no fool when it comes to a weapon or its power.”

Chrom nods. “We have no proof of the rest of our claims, aside from the ‘Lucina’ woman, but her whereabouts are unknown.”

“We cannot ask you to put full belief in those words, but we implore you to accept this truth,” Robin adds. She is still sitting, her shaking hands kept in her lap. “The alliance we are extending to you is first and foremost against the threat of war with Plegia. Mark has estimated that we have a few years at best before Grima”—she nearly stumbles over the word—“arrives.”

“If possible, we would hope that Regna Ferox would lend its strength during that battle as well,” Chrom adds.

Flavia’s finger taps against the edge of her chair. “We Feroxi don’t take kindly to lies, or roundabout schemes. We much prefer to face our challenges, as well as our deals, head-on.”

Her eyes flick toward Mark. She stands and moves close enough to tower over him. He stares right back up at her, and Robin wonders if the horrors he’s seen make a powerful woman such as Flavia smaller in his eyes, or even bigger.

“I will not ask your identity,” the khan says, one hand on her hip. “But I will ask you this: Why is it that you continue to fight, when you’ve seen the world fall twice?”

“…I do not remember the first time,” he says after a moment. “But even then, I wanted to give up. I didn’t want to come back a second time.” He takes a breath, and it’s shaky. “But I had important people who counted on me, who I counted on in turn. Something went wrong the last time, something we intended to make right…and I am the only one left. The temptation to give up nips at my heels at every step, but this is something I must take care of on behalf of all my friends and comrades. I won’t give up until I find a way to stop Grima. I must protect the ones I care about.”

Flavia does not respond for a moment. She studies what she can see of Mark’s face, and then she closes her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You speak your truths quite well. I believe I understand just what kind of person you are now.”

She opens her eyes and turns toward Chrom. “Perhaps I do not fully believe that Grima is coming, but I’m willing to put our alliance that far. We will keep our eyes out for Grima and this ‘Lucina’ character. I will also prepare a small battalion to come into Ylisse in case of war with Plegia. They will be under your orders, unless myself or one of my trusted commanders is not there to take charge of them.”

Chrom quickly bows, and Robin stands as well to do the same, and Frederick and Mark mirror the action.

“Oh, the lot of you,” Flavia grumbles, but there’s still a smile on her face. “Let’s just remember the increased trade, and the split of the spoils of war.”

()()()

The ensuing talks of the new trade agreements take two more hours before Flavia lets them rest for the night. Robin’s foggy mind is spinning with numbers and goods and marketplaces, and she follows Chrom a bit blindly to the dining area set aside for the Shepherds. The smell snaps her out of her reverie, as does the noise; most of the Shepherds are still around the table, though they’ve finished with their shares (aside from Stahl, still feeding his bottomless stomach). Four plates of food have been set aside.

“Ah, Captain Chrom!” Sumia shoots to her feet and nearly trips—a steady hand from Sully keeps her upright. She flushes and gestures to the plates. “I—we made sure to leave some for you.”

Chrom gives her a smile, and Robin doesn’t miss the flash of happiness in Sumia’s eyes as he thanks her. “I’m hungrier than a Stahl.”

“Hey!” Stahl swallows a mouthful of turkey before finishing speaking. “Saying ‘a Stahl’ makes me sound like a horse.”

Chrom just laughs, and he sits, gesturing to Robin to sit beside him. She does so, and as she does, the stresses of the day and the weeks melt away. Even when Mark sits at Chrom’s other side at the prince’s invitation, she chooses to ignore it rather than dwell on it. She digs into her potatoes, and Sully commends her appetite.

It’s late, but she stays there for almost another hour, even as the Shepherds start to head back to their assigned beds for the night. Mark was the first to leave, followed by Kellam, Miriel, and Sumia. Chrom remains beside her, radiating warmth, and in a lazy kind of bliss, she wonders if there’s a possible world where she can stay like this; confident after a win both on the battlefield and in the political sphere, and surrounded by budding friendships she’s never had before.

A knock sounds nearby. “Am I interrupting?”

She turns, and a dark-skinned, heavily muscled man steps inside the doorway. He’s bald, and one of his eyes is hidden under a black patch.

He grins and extends his hand. “Name’s Basilio. Was the former Khan.”

Chrom nods, taking this in stride. He stands and takes Basilio’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. This is my tactician, Robin”—as he says this, she stands—“and this is my second in command, Frederick.”

“No ‘sir’ business here, kid. Just ‘Basilio’ `s fine.” He laughs, and gives both Robin and Frederick rather jovial greetings before turning back to Chrom. “You showed some good skills out there today. I was impressed.”

“Thank you, Basilio. Your champion was a skilled swordsman. I wouldn’t hesitate to take the chance to spar with him again.”

Robin can feel Basilio’s booming laugh throughout her entire body. “Well you’re in luck, my boy. Flavia told me about the treaty, and I thought I’d come give you a gift.” He turns his head around. “Oi, Lon’qu, Olivia!”

Through the doorway come the swordsman from earlier—Lon’qu, presumably—and a demure pink-haired woman wearing a rather revealing dancing outfit. Lon’qu is stiff, and keeps a distance between himself and the woman.

Basilio claps the two newcomers on the shoulders as soon as they’re in range. “The battalion won’t be ready for at least a week, so I’ve decided to send these two with you—they’d be good members of your…what was…ah, ‘Shepherds’!”

The woman nods her head, her gaze continuously flicking toward the ground. “H-hello. My name is Olivia. I can cook and clean and… I’m a d-dancer, but I’m not very good…”

“Nonsense!” Basilio barks. “You’re the best I’ve ever seen.”

Olivia stutters, but Basilio turns his attention to the swordsman. “You’ve met Lon’qu. Not the best for talking, mind you, but his skill with the sword is the best among my warriors.”

“You were great!” Lissa pipes up. She was dozing earlier, but now springs to her feet beside Robin. “If you could beat—”

“Away, woman!” Lon’qu snaps, backing up a step, a scowl on his face.

Lissa nearly falls over, and Robin reaches out a hand to steady her. Lissa blinks in surprise, and Robin frowns at Lon’qu. “What was that for?” she says in as even a tone as she can manage.

Basilio lets out another booming laugh, and Lon’qu looks away as the former khan explains: “The ladies tend to put Lon’qu on edge when he isn’t on the battlefield. But he is quite capable. I’d say he could become khan one day. Consider him and Olivia West Ferox’s contribution to the cause.”

“It would be an honor to have these two join the Shepherds,” Chrom says. “But, you’re certain about this?” He looks to Olivia and Lon’qu. “You two have no objections?”

Olivia shakes her head. “N-no, none at all… I’ve wanted to see new places, and put my skills to good use…”

Lon’qu just crosses his arms. “He gives orders. I stab people. I think our roles are pretty clear.”

This earns a chuckle from Chrom. He turns to Frederick and Robin. “What say you two?”

Frederick only nods. “Their skills are needed among the Shepherds, especially in the battles to come.”

“…So long as they can meld keep up, I see no problem,” Robin says, although as she says this, she looks Lon’qu up and down. He shifts his balance on his feet, but doesn’t back away or say anything rude like he did to Lissa.

“All right, then. Welcome aboard. Be ready to leave tomorrow just after sunrise. I’ll let you go get some rest now; it’s late.” He turns to look at the rest of the Shepherds still awake. “In fact, we should all get some sleep.”

Yawns and goodnight wishes go around, and the Shepherds make their way to their rooms for the night. A shape from the adjoining hallway catches Robin’s eye, and she turns her head to see Mark leaving his own room and making his way into the common area toward them.

“It is late, but if I may?” he asks quietly. “I have just one question.”

“Is it all right?” Chrom asks Basilio.

The west khan shrugs. “Just one is fine. Flavia let me know about you, by the way,” he says to Mark. “Can’t say I believe your story, but I’m willin’ to give you the benefit of the doubt for now.”

Robin’s hand curls into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. _Neither of them fully believe him._ Not that she can blame them, but the alliance will break apart if Mark’s story doesn’t add up sooner or later. _The Feroxi probably only wanted our trade. It helps that Ylisse’s had a good history with them, though. Even still, they probably don’t trust us as far as they can throw us,_ she realizes.

Mark nods his head. “Thank you. Have you…well…has anyone come to Ferox recently? The person is—is Lucina, if Khan Flavia told you about her. A woman with pale skin, dark hair, and a dark blade… She may have been in disguise.”

Robin tries not to shudder at the memory of the girl with the burning red eyes. She steps closer to Chrom without quite realizing it.

Basilio puts a hand on his chin. “There have been people of all sorts who came in to vie for the champions’ positions. But no one who matches that description to my knowledge came here. Lon’qu?”

“No.” Lon’qu shakes his head. “I’ve never seen such a person. Talk to the border guards if you must.”

“I…see.” Mark nods. “I have no way of knowing if she came, I just wanted to check. Thank you for your time.” He bows, and then returns to his room.

“Quite the kid,” Basilio says, though not too unkindly. He lets out the largest yawn Robin’s ever seen. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m bushed. It’s time to hit the hay.”

He, Olivia, and Lon’qu leave for the night, and Frederick sets about to tidy up the table. Robin stands still, the fingers of her left hand rubbing against the back of her right, on the glove.

Sleep is hard to come by.

()()()

 _I wonder how Felicia is doing_ , Robin thinks as she cleans up her dishes from dinner the next day. Despite only having known the maid for such a short time, her earnestness and enthusiasm was infectious, and Robin finds herself missing it a little. She could certainly use it.

_She said she was good at fighting, but I don’t think I could’ve risked taking her along. Still, maybe it would have been nice to have had her come…_

Chrom touches her arm. “Robin? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Huh?” She takes a moment to understand his words. They traveled the whole day to get back into Ylissean territory, and her mind had been lost in thoughts, even after they made camp. “Of course.”

He leads her down the middle of camp to his private tent, and closes the flap behind them. He gestures at the chair at the desk; she takes it, and he sits on the edge of his cot, within reach. He lights a couple candles on the desk and the warm light highlights his nose and jaw.

“Is something the matter?” Robin asks.

Chrom fumbles for words. “I…wanted to see how you were doing.”

She frowns. “What do you mean? As tactician? I do have some things I need to work on, but—”

“No, I mean… Lissa calls me oblivious a lot, but I try to keep an eye out on how my comrades are doing. And, well…” He scratches the back of his neck. “If I may say, you’re very…up and down?”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Up and down?”

“Such as…during and after the battles we’ve faced together, you’re very confident. But afterward it seems to only take a…just a little to make you quiet. Do you understand what I mean?”

Chrom looks like he’s grasping at straws to explain himself, but his bright blue eyes are earnest and truthful, not to mention full of concern. Still, Robin can guess all too well at what he’s trying to get at, and she can’t help but tense.

“…I do.”

Relief washes over his expression for a moment. “Well…what’s bothering you? Can I help in any way?”

She bites her lip. “I think it’s just nerves. I’ve never had a job of this caliber before.”

She can tell immediately that the answer doesn’t satisfy Chrom. His eyebrows knit together. “Can I ask you a question?” he says.

Against her better judgement, she says, “Yes.”

“…Why does Mark seem to frighten you so much?”

The words strike through her heart like a spear. Her pulse quickens, and she mindlessly plays with her hands in her lap. After a few seconds, she realizes herself and forces her fingers to be still.

“He doesn’t frighten me. His future does,” she half-lies.

“Robin…” He frowns. “He’s just a boy. Maybe just a handful of years younger than us at most, but can’t you see it in the way he acts? He’s lost.”

“Yes, he needs our help, and we need his. There’s not much else we can do if he doesn’t come forward about everything.”

Chrom doesn’t answer for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to stave off a headache. It causes Robin to feel guilty for giving him more stress on top of everything that lays on the horizon, especially after the fact that they’ve just managed to build a treaty with another nation that included hours of negotiation, but the guilt doesn’t make her any less defensive.

“I don’t think that Mark will hurt us,” Chrom says finally. “And not just because we’re keeping his weapons from him. Lucina is the one who _will_ hurt us, given the slightest chance. And this Grima right behind her.”

“It would be foolish not to be afraid of them, if you’re somehow implying I’m not,” Robin says. It’s a struggle to keep her voice even.

“I’m sorry.” He looks like he really means it. “But what I’m trying to say is… Mark may not be forthcoming, but he’s trustworthy.”

Robin crosses her arms. “I’m not you, Chrom. I can’t blindly trust him.”

Chrom’s jaw tightens. “I trusted you from the moment we met. And don’t you trust me?”

“I—I do trust you, Chrom,” she says, hurt. “But you’re open and honest, and Mark is…”

“Is what?”

Her throat swells, and her eyes sting. “…Just a couple of weeks before meeting you,” she says quietly, “I parted ways with my mother. She taught me everything I know about tactics and magic, but nothing about my father, or where she learned her trade from, or why we couldn’t enter the draft when we were so skilled. She always gave me vague answers or nothing at all, even after I became an adult.

“I love my mother, Chrom, but I couldn’t trust her anymore. So I left her behind.”

He absorbs her words quietly, his expression softening, but no less serious. “And that’s why it’s so hard to trust Mark, then.”

 _And I’m scared that the mark on my hand is a sign of what Mark said about the ‘avatar,’_ she wants to admit. _That Lucina could by my daughter from the future, following the ‘avatar’s’ will as Grima. That what my mother hasn’t told me is what Mark hasn’t told me._

But instead of voicing her thoughts, Robin simply nods, too afraid to reveal that much to Chrom, and too afraid to admit that much to herself out loud.

Chrom gives her a small smile. “I don’t know if this means much, but I’m glad that you told me. You’re my friend, Robin; you can tell me anything, and I’ll do my best to help you.

“Though right now… I’m going to ask that you try to give Mark a shot. You don’t have to do anything too major if it’s hard, but maybe… I don’t know… have a conversation with him?”

She snorts. “It’s not that easy, Chrom.”

“I don’t know… He’s good with magic. Talk to him about that?” When she doesn’t immediately answer, he adds, “For me?”

Somehow, even after all the stress from their conversation, this last bit from him draws a huff of laughter from her. “…I can’t make any promises, but… I will try. Just once.”

His smile is bright. “Thank you, Robin.”

()()()

The next day is filled with more southward marching. For now, there aren’t any Risen crawling about, nor anything out of the ordinary, really. Robin can almost pretend that the Mark of Grima under her glove isn’t there, that there isn’t a crazed woman out there bent on their deaths.

Almost.

Chrom’s request nags at the back of her mind every time she glances at Mark, but it’s hard to even think of something to say to start a conversation. She doesn’t want to ask him about the future—he’ll only avoid answering, anyway—and she’s hesitant to ask him anything about his past, even if she would be digging for something nice.

On the third day of travel, Chrom pushes them past the normal hour where they would make camp. "It's only a few more hours until we reach Ylisstol," he explains to the Shepherds. "I know we'll have to be a bit slower to be safer in the dark, but I think I would be wrong in assuming that we don't want to sleep in our own beds tonight."

This earns chuckles from most of the Shepherds, although Olivia lets out a few worried murmurs from nearby at the idea of continuing after dark.

"We should be fine," Robin says, coming up to stand beside Chrom. "After all, you guys should all know this area pretty well. Dinner will have to be at the castle though, I'm afraid. There’s no time to set up anything other than snacks."

"Aww," Stahl sighs at the thought of waiting for dinner, and Vaike gives him a hard slap on the back to cheer him up.

They fall back into marching formation, and continue on their way. Chrom and Robin stay toward the front as per usual, and Mark is nearby, though not walking beside anyone. Chrom nudges Robin and casts a meaningful glance in Mark's direction, and Robin raises an eyebrow even as her stomach falls a little.

Still, she gave Chrom her word, and she would rather not go back on it. She moves away from Chrom and approaches Mark's right side.

"How did you find Regna Ferox?" she asks. It wasn't the first thing that came to her mind to ask, but it was the first thing that would hopefully lead to a more normal conversation.

He startles a bit, surprised by her appearance. He glances toward her and then plays with the sleeves of his cloak. She realizes he's like her in this way, when she plays with her hands and her gloves.

"It was a bit colder than I remember," he says. "But it was very comfortable, and the food was delicious."

"It was. Did you enjoy watching the battles?"

"They were entertaining, yes. Um..." He turns his head toward her and nods. "You did a good job. Chrom as well."

She doesn't know quite how to take his praise. "Thank you," she says after a moment.

"...You're a good tactician," he adds, looking down.

In that moment, she can see what Chrom meant about Mark just being a child. She wishes she could simply banish her doubts and help him in earnest, but it's not that easy; she knows why, but she doesn't know how to change it.

"And you're a talented mage and swordsman. You've also learned tactics as well, I take it?"

He nods stiffly. "It was...necessary."

A thought occurs to Robin, and it comes out of her mouth before she can stop it: "Did I teach you?"

Mark's mouth drops open, but before he can answer, she shakes her head and waves her hand. "No, don't answer that," she says hurriedly, and there are two parts inside of her, one wanting to know, and the other wanting to bury her head in the dirt. “It’s fine.”

It's not really fine, Robin knows, but she doesn't know what else to say.

Mark looks away. "I...am sorry for what I am doing to you," he whispers, so quietly that she can't be sure if he really said the words. "It's unfair."

Robin shakes her head. "I need to go discuss something with Chrom."

She moves away from Mark, and her thumb rubs the back of her right hand. All her life, the secret of her mark has been torture on her mind, but she's been able to bear it. But since Lucina and Mark appeared, it's become increasingly frustrating, so much so that she wonders not if, but _when_ she'll fall under the weight of it.

"How did it go?" Chrom asks when she returns to his side.

"I tried." She struggles to bring her mind to the present. She doesn't look at him. "It was...better than most other times."

"...Thank you, Robin."

He puts his hand on her shoulder, and her gaze meets his. His blue eyes seem sad, almost, but the smallest of smiles is on his lips.

"You did your best, and until now you have always done your best for the Shepherds. I can only ask that you continue to do so. Thank you."

Robin nods, unsure of what to say. Chrom doesn't push her to speak.

They walk for a few more hours, darkness having finally come upon them. It slows their movement, but they have enough lanterns to light the way, and Sumia takes to the skies to head toward Ylisstol and announce their arrival, which is a day or two ahead of what they planned before leaving.

Chrom starts to make small talk with Robin, wondering what kind of food they would have for dinner, that it would be nice to take some time off tomorrow (in between filling Emmeryn in on the new alliance with Regna Ferox), and such.

“If we have time, I can show you more of Ylisstol. You haven’t seen that much of it yet, have you?”

She smiles at the offer. “No, I haven’t. If there is time, I would like to go. It would be nice to know where the forges and magic shops are.”

“Sounds like a plan, then…if we have the time,” he adds, but before Robin can reply, a whinny sounds from Frederick’s mare, and it’s repeated by Stahl’s and Sully’s steeds.

“Milord!” Frederick calls from his position in front. He was walking, leading his mare to give her a break, but now he’s stopped. His mare is scraping at the ground, snorting.

“Something’s wrong,” Sully says, and Stahl echoes her sentiment. Both of their horses start tossing their heads, shifting nervously.

“Everyone, defensive positions!” Chrom calls, unsheathing Falchion. He tosses the wrapped Falchion to Mark.

“Virion, Miriel, get on the wagons for vantage points—!” Robin starts, but a sudden thudding sound comes from nearby, and a large, hairy beast leaps from the bushes.

Lissa screams, and Robin pulls her tome from her coat. The Shepherds all take arms, aiming at the creature—and suddenly, there’s a small burst of light.

“Man-spawn, I am not here to fight you.”

In the beast’s place is the figure of a woman. The lamplight reveals her dark skin, and the odd tufts of hair all over her body. Robin blinks at the sight of a fluffy tail and rabbit-like ears that hang down past the woman’s chin.

“Who are you?” Chrom demands, stepping forward. He lowers Falchion, but doesn’t sheathe it.

“I am Panne, last of the Taguel.” Her nose twitches. “Might you be man-spawn of the capitol?”

“I am Prince Chrom of Ylisse, if that is what you mean,” Chrom says. “What are you doing here?”

“There are scents of man-spawn from the west—”

The frantic sound of flapping wings catches their ears, and everyone looks up.

“Captain Chrom!” Sumia lands her pegasus hurriedly in front of the Shepherds, her normally beautiful curls disheveled by the wind. Her poor steed is panting with exertion.

Chrom immediately turns to her. “What’s happened, Sumia?”

Sumia’s face is pale in the growing moonlight. “The warning bells at the castle were ringing. Her Grace is under attack.”


	12. xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina and the Grimleal attempt an assassination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Violence and blood, wounding an animal, and death.

_second_

That day, Lucina saw her Aunt Emmeryn for the first time in her life.

She had kept away from Ylisstol, spending time instead heading north to face off against Lon'qu in hopes of being able to battle her father at his prime. That had been a selfish decision, she knew. But she had studied the chronology of past events as well as she possibly could before coming to the past, and there hadn't been any major events standing in her way.

In the spare time between events, she kept mostly to small towns and the countryside, battling Risen whenever they appeared in her path. They were a nuisance; dangerous, yes, but hardly of the caliber that they had been in her time. She knew how to get rid of them.

Regardless, since leaving Regna Ferox, she hadn't spoken a word to anyone. The nights had been cold, with nothing but her cape to wrap around her, but she was used to worse. It was surreal sometimes, waking up when the sunlight began to shine through the trees, without comrades and without enemies most times, either. It was quiet, but the birds sang, and when she was careful enough she could come across wildlife of all sorts. Even a couple of bears were wandering around, and she remembered her parents’ wistful hopes to eat one again someday, when there weren’t Risen around to exterminate the animals and leave them to rot.

After checking the dates, she finally made her way back toward Ylisstol. Afraid to attract unwanted attention, she took off her mask and hid the Brand in her left eye with her bangs, and rarely looked people in the eye. Even with her heart hammering so loudly in her chest that she could hear it in her ears, almost threatening to give her away, the townspeople didn't look at her with suspicion or fear.

In fact, they smiled to her, and bartered with her about payment on food, and suggested to her the best places to visit or to stay at. She took someone's advice about a cheap inn and she rented it starting three days before the date of Emmeryn’s assassination. Even though the room was small and cramped, the bed was comfortable, and the food reminded her so much of her childhood meals that she had to hold back tears.

It took an hour for her to calm down that first day, and sleep was hard to come by despite her exhaustion and the comfort of a mattress beneath her. But the next, she took to exploring Ylisstol in its prime, going down every street, checking around nearly every corner. The routes were all familiar, as were most of the locations, but so, so many seemingly random shops were unrecognizable to her. They hadn’t stood, back in the future.

And that was when she saw the crowd.

Her interest piqued, Lucina drew her cloak a bit tighter around herself and stood by the edge of the throng of people, looking toward the main street. She had to crane her neck to see around a burly man, but then, she saw the procession.

The guards were donned in glittering armor with decorations of gold. The pegasus knights of Ylisse, at the peak of their grandeur in history, rode their horses on the ground; three in the front, five in the back, and surely the rest were elsewhere, practicing their aerial combat. Even out of their element, the knights and their pegasi were elegant beyond her belief.

And in the middle of the procession was the Exalt.

Emmeryn was stunning, even from a distance. Her hair was the same shade as Aunt Lissa's, but far more elegant and tame in style. Her robes were long and green, trimmed with gold that matched the scepter in her hand. She just about shone in the sunlight.

She waved to her people and they cheered and waved back as she continued on her way, and a new resolve settled deep within Lucina.

She had to stop Grima, not just for her family, her friends, and her people, but also for the aunt whom she had never met.

Lucina returned to her room at the inn to wait out the rest of the time before the Plegian assassins would come. She left the inn early, before dusk fell, and went about once again as if she were a tourist. When night began to fall, she hid in the shadows of alleyways and donned her mask, and unwrapped Falchion to keep ready at her hip.

"It's now, or never," she murmured, and went on toward the castle.

()()()

"I haven't told that story to anyone," Lucina said, gazing up at the blue sky. She felt a bit warm at the thought, and hoped it didn't show in her words or on her face. Inigo would just take her embarrassment and worsen it tenfold.

"All the stories make her sound like she was quite the nice lady." Inigo was sitting next to her in the grass. It was a rare moment where there was nothing immediate that needed attending to, and he hadn't wasted a second in finding her and taking her away from the bustle of camp.

He had asked her if anything in this past time had made her happy— _unexpectedly_ happy.

"I wish you could have seen her. Morgan, too." Lucina's hand absently ran through the grass around her as she watched the clouds. "She was perhaps one of the most radiant women I've ever seen."

A sly smile formed on Inigo's lips. "Oh, I might beg to differ."

Lucina frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If it were me, I would say that no one could ever compare to the light that shines from you, milady."

Warmth blazed on Lucina's cheeks. "Oh, stop it..."

He grinned. "It's true, though."

She looked away, unable to hid her smile otherwise. A bubble of happiness sprung up in her chest. "Well... Perhaps I don't agree with you, but…I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless."

"You are quite welcome," he said, a bubble of laughter rising from his chest and into the air.

She looked back at him. He was still smiling at her, his white hair falling into his eyes.

* * *

 

For the first time in her new body, Lucina feels a twinge of loneliness.

No one is beside her at the moment, as she and the Grimleal wait in hiding for darkness to overtake Ylisstol. Validar is assuring that his forces are ready, walking among them and muttering to himself. He is alone. Aversa was left behind with the puppet king of Plegia, and Henry remains at the Main Cathedral, keeping an eye on matters at Lucina's command.

She doesn't acknowledge the loneliness. After all, how can she ever admit that Henry's annoying, incessantly gruesome sense of humor is so interesting to her?  She should be above such things, as Grima's head servant and a facet of Grima herself. Though perhaps a bit of entertainment staves off the dreadful state of having incomplete power, she supposes.

Her fingers trail over Erebus's hilt, now familiar in her hand. She can feel the power emanating from it, hungering for blood after a thousand years of lying dormant. Even after killing so many, it isn’t nearly satisfied.

Finally, the scout returns after nightfall, relaying the guard rotation—the same one as the previous night. The Grimleal form into their preassigned groups, but Lucina stays steps away from them. Validar insisted upon giving her guards, but she refused.

Validar gives the signal, and they leave the barren basement. They scurry through the shadows of the night; the moon shines brightly, giving them good enough lighting to see, but it also makes it easier to be seen. The mages whisper hexes on their robes to give the illusion of darkness.

Lucina leads them to the cleft in the castle wall, where Chrom once shattered the stone with a mistimed swing of Falchion during his training. When she was a child, he made her promise to use it as an escape were something ever to happen, and to never tell anyone but their family about it.

She leads the way through, and keeps watch as the others climb through and hide in the shadows.

The courtyard garden matches her memory—quiet, tranquil, full of flowers and small groves of trees. Guards patrol the paths, but none too close to their hiding place. Once Lucina gives the signal, several assassins move out in all directions. This part is simple, to dispatch the guards and take up positions for support from the outside.

Lucina waits with the rest of the main party for several minutes, not a word or even a loud breath passing her lips. One of the mages behind her shifts nervously, the hint of a mutter in the air, and Lucina grabs the hilt of Erebus and levels a glare at the woman. She can’t see the expression the mage makes under the cloth covering her face—all but Lucina have hidden any identifiable features under black cloth all over their bodies—but the woman bows her head in haste.

Finally, the call of an owl sounds twice, and then Lucina signals for the group to proceed toward the lesser used entrance from the gardens, on the western side. They slink behind the bushes, careful not the be revealed by the light coming from the castle windows. The guards by both entrances have yet to be dispatched; there is too much open space between the bushes and the doors to let the Plegians go unnoticed.

The two archers notch their arrows and kneel just slightly higher than the shrubbery, taking aim at the guards. Lucina signals them, and simultaneously, their arrows fly.

The first catches one guard in the eye, instantly causing him to crumple to the ground. The second lodges in the other man’s shoulder.

“A-attack!” the guard coughs, stunned. Then, louder: “Attack from the western—!”

Another arrow finds his throat, but it’s too late.

More yells from the Ylisseans sound out, and then the high-pitched, clanging bells ring out as a warning against intruders. Lucina stands and unsheathes Erebus; it’s only haste that keeps her from slaying the errant archer then and there. Her tattoos glow on her scowling face. “Attack as planned! Do not retreat until Emmeryn is dead and the Fire Emblem is in our hands!”

The mages blast bursts of dark fire at the doors barring them from the inside of the castle. The wood is protected from damage by charms, but enough force will eventually cause them to break.

“Take up arms around the mages!” Lucina calls, doing so herself and keeping an eye on the skies and the walls of the castle. They have the gardens, so it’s unlikely that any Ylisseans will come from behind a rosebush.

Up on the ramparts, guards appear and aim bows down at them. Lucina shouts, and a spare mage blasts a wind spell to set the volley of arrows spinning. Validar and their archers send attacks back, and one or two bodies fall from the parapets to the ground with dull thuds.

Above the roar of flames, flapping wings beat at the air. Lucina rushes to the east flank to intercept the first flier, slicing at the pegasus’s flank. It whinnies in pain, and the knight scowls and aims her lance at Lucina, but she easily parries the blow. The knight’s grip on her weapon loosens, and she tries to rear back, but Lucina slices at the steed’s wing. The pegasus loses balance, and Lucina takes advantage of the panic to stab through the knight’s chest. When Lucina pulls out her blade, the woman slumps over her steed’s neck, and the beast manages to flee at a low altitude, even with a bloodied wing.

From there, the battle starts to seamlessly meld together, her actions flowing from one to the next without thought. An arrow grazes her arm, another pegasus knight stabs her thigh, but the wounds don’t stop her. She continues the defense until the Plegian mages’ flames cut out.

At the first opportunity, she turns from the flank and takes up the head, leading the way over the charred remains of the doors into the castle proper. Guards and armored knights block the two branching hallways, but she hardly cares and charges toward the western path. She darts through and around them, slicing at exposed areas, leaving them weakened for the Plegian forces behind her. The Ylisseans balk at her speed; some try to attack her, but they can barely touch her.

“The Shepherds are coming the north!” a Ylissean calls out over the dim of battle. “The Shepherds—!”

Lucina slices through the man’s neck, forgetting all around her for a moment as he falls to the floor.

_Our scouts were wrong, then. They’re back already._

It hardly matters.

She darts off again, so sudden that the enemies around her can’t react in time to cut off her route. She gives even less care to those around her, only using her sword when force is the only way she can get through. She turns and goes up a curved, narrow staircase, and this is the only part that slows her down—there’s no way to get around the guards except to cut them down and step over their bodies.

Lucina climbs for two levels, and then breaks out into the hallway that leads to the living quarters. It is empty.

Lucina hisses in irritation and runs toward the end of the hallway, toward the great double doors that lead to the quarters. She grabs one of the large, round knockers and pulls; it budges, but not by much. Her actions cause panicked words to rise up from inside, and she hears the word "Exalt." She smirks.

While pulling on the door with one hand, she takes up Erebus in the other and wedges it in the space between the doors. The tip hits something solid, but relatively soft: wood.

She hacks away at it as best as she can with the awkward angle. Erebus may not be an axe, but it's more than sharp enough to wear down the wood. Still, it takes up valuable time, and she knows that even with her bow-laden assassins in the gardens, if Emmeryn were taken away by pegasus it would spell failure for their mission.

An idea strikes her mind.

"Your Grace!" she calls mockingly, continuing away at hacking. "Won't you come out? I have a proposition for you!"

"Her Grace would have nothing to do with you!" an indignant woman's voice comes through. Lucina ignores the woman but decides to kill her first.

"I know you must be planning on escaping somehow," she continues loudly. "But wouldn't that just mean condemning your subjects to death? I'm only here for you and the Fire Emblem, after all. Come out, come out!"

A few swings later, her sword hacks through enough of the wooden barricade, and it splinters apart with a loud groan as she wrenches open the door. A small retinue of pegasus knights without their mounts stream from the room, lances aimed at Lucina’s heart. Behind them, Lucina can see a trio of guards around the Exalt, a physic staff in her raised hand.

The pegasus knights of Ylisse are highly skilled women, the Exalt’s entourage. Two stab into Lucina’s left arm before she can slice their legs, causing them to tumble to the floor. Lucina parries another lance and slices the attacker’s arm clean off. Blood spurts from the wound, splattering onto the other knights’ bodies as the woman falls in pain.

Two of Emmeryn’s three guards join the fray, and when the Exalt’s staff glows, two of those on the floor rise to their feet. Lucina yells in exertion, slicing Erebus in a wide arc, and she takes someone’s head. One of the knights screams, and the remaining knights stab at her in coordination; she tries to parry and block, but one attack grazes her side.

“Why won’t you just—stay down!” she demands, and two at once fall to her blade. The remaining two barely have time to put up defensive positions before Lucina stabs one and kicks the other to the ground. She pulls out her sword and almost lazily slices the other woman’s stomach open before calmly walking into the living quarters proper.

The quarters fork into two separate wings, the space large enough to accommodate even a large royal family. The main area is a sitting room—although the furniture has been pushed aside as if they planned to barricade the door. The far wall is full of tall windows, revealing the orange glow of fires coming from below. The Exalt and her guard stand by the glass; one of the panes is half-open, but there is no sound nor sight of aerial rescue.

She can feel the twinge in her skin and the heat in her stomach as the stored souls in her work to slowly mend her wounds. She flicks her wrist and sends the excess blood on her blade to scatter on the floor.

“How many more will die before you give yourself up?” Lucina asks, a demonic grin sliding onto her face.

Emmeryn is pale, staring at her knights with wide eyes. But at Lucina’s words, she looks up, and her lips fall into a frown, her brows narrowing together. “I will not bow down to one who would commit genocide upon my people.”

The last guard—Phila, Lucina recalls vaguely—steps forward, a deadly-looking lance in her hands. “If you take one more step, I will—”

“You can’t kill me, human,” Lucina spits. She points Erebus at the knight. “To try such would be suicide.”

“Phila,” Emmeryn warns, and the knight hesitates.

Lucina darts forward.

She pulls Erebus close and stabs outward with force, but Phila parries the blow just enough to go unscathed from the attack. The knight pushes on her lance with both hands to send Lucina backward, and the princess rolls to the right to keep from losing her balance. Phila hounds her, stabbing, and Lucina is forced to parry as she goes backward toward the eastern wing, on the defensive.

Phila stabs forward once more, narrowly missing Lucina’s stomach. Before the knight can retract her forward momentum, Lucina grabs the lance with her left hand and pulls. Phila catches herself before she falls forward, but it still leaves her open.

An arc of blood bursts from Phila’s hip to her shoulder, splattering Erebus’s blade, and the knight falls on her back, her hand still clutched around her lance. Lucina lets go of it like it’s a boring toy.

“Phila!” Emmeryn gasps, and her staff glows.

Phila sucks in air, and the wound on her chest starts to close. She grips her lance, but Lucina steps on her arm and aims Erebus at her neck.

“Phila!” Emmeryn screams again, but Phila only glares up at Lucina.

“I will die before you try to use me as a bargaining chip for the Fire Emblem,” she spits.

Lucina smiles. “Well, isn’t that good for you? I wasn’t planning anything of the kind.”

With one slice, Phila speaks no more.

Emmeryn shakes, but her staff glows still. Lucina pays it no mind—even if Phila can be saved, only the rarest of staves could return her to fighting condition in an instant—and she steps calmly toward the Exalt.

“What will you do now, Your Grace?” she taunts, smiling all the while. “Leap from the open window? No one will ever catch you. I would just pluck the Fire Emblem from your corpse.”

Emmeryn closes her eyes, and a few seconds later, the glow in her staff fades slightly. One hand travels to her backside, and she pulls a tome from her robes.

Lucina laughs. “The pacifist would raise a hand in battle?”

“My people—all people—need peace,” Emmeryn says, only the slightest tremor in her voice revealing her fear. “Surely you must require it as well. I will fight you if I must, but even you…even you must need peace.”

“The only peace to be found is beyond the doors of death.” Lucina raises Erebus, and—

“ _Lucina_!”

Mirth twists her lips and she turns, almost lazily, to look at the newcomer.

Standing in the doorway, amidst the knights’ corpses, face hidden behind what was once her mask, is Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get one more chapter out before I drown in finals/one last trip before I return to the US.
> 
> I usually try to keep the chapter order Robin->Lucina->Morgan, but from now I may have to switch up the order. Lucina's chapters tend to be shorter, anyway. I'm also working on going back to older chapters and editing for grammar and plot.
> 
> And thank you so, so much to those who have commented, liked, and bookmarked! I'm humbled that so many people are excited to see me return to this story. I still can't make any promises, but at least for the moment, I'm really happy and excited to be working on this again. Until next time!
> 
> EDIT: Morgan's picture is done by @fabledtactician on tumblr! Go support their art, they're amazing!


	13. xiii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Chrom storm the castle to save Emmeryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back home and I've been playing Shadows of Valentia and Persona 5. Valentia is super good and I'm looking forward to finishing it. I just wanted to point out that since Valentia and Awakening are set in the same universe, their canons may overlap. Depending on how it does, I may include some Valentia canon (or, I may not!), though a lot of my ideas have obviously come into my head before I played Valentia.
> 
> P5 is a trip, but now I can't write this fic's "Morgana" without thinking about the cat.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: Violence, fire, character death.

_first, second,_ and _third_

Morgana sat at the window. It overlooked the Main Cathedral’s courtyard, with its sparse grass and few trees. A small fountain carved with the six-winged dragon stood in the center, the beast’s maw open wide, revealing rows of teeth.

The woman ran a hand over her rounded stomach, lost in thoughts. She was due any day now. The midwives had told her that it was normal to worry, as a mother-to-be—it prepared for motherhood. However, the pain of childbirth was the least of her worries.

If it were up to her, she would not be pregnant at all.

“Ah, so this is where you’ve been.”

She had never liked the sound of her husband’s voice. It was deep and rough but somehow felt like it was oozing out of him at the same time, like some sort of poison. Still, she gave him a smile as he walked inside her private quarters from the door leading to their shared chambers.

“You should not be alone at a time like this,” he chastised. Despite how much she disliked him—and despite him knowing that their marriage is of convenience to them both—he had never been cruel to her, and he wasn’t then. He could be cold sometimes, just like her, but they were always civil to each other. “What if you were to begin labor with no one around?”

“I’m sure the servants would find me quite quickly,” she said. “After all, I think I would hardly keep quiet from the pain.”

“You are also the most important woman in the country right now,” Validar added. “And with war at our doorstep, I would be quite upset to find you beheaded, to put it lightly.”

“Oh, I have no intentions of dying _just_ yet,” she joked.

* * *

 

Fires light up parts of the castle’s outer walls. The light can be seen clearly even from outside the town gates.

Those Shepherds who have no mount were left behind to be a second wave against the intruders. Chrom rides in front of the small band behind Frederick; Mark is with Sully; and Virion readies his bow from atop Sumia’s pegasus. Robin holds tightly onto Stahl’s armor, almost as frightened by the idea of falling from the saddle as she is about what they will find in the castle. She hopes that her and Chrom’s decision to leave Lissa and her staff with the second group won’t come back to bite them in the ass.

“The horses have to be careful once we arrive!” she calls above the clodding of hooves. “No taking on another person during combat unless it’s an emergency! Avoid fighting in the halls on horseback if you can, the floors will be slippery with blood.”

Frederick nods, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road as his mare gallops at full speed. “Her Grace’s guards will barricade the royal quarters,” Frederick explains. They pass through the city gates, and the lantern light illuminates his and Chrom’s grim countenances. “Unless there are enemy archers, they should be able to get her to a pegasus.”

Robin grimaces. “Sumia, watch out for archers! Virion, they’re your number one concern!” With how famous the Ylissean Pegasus Knights are, there’s no doubt in her mind that bowmen will be stationed outside. “Work with Stahl and Sully to get rid of them!”

The gates into the castle grounds open as they approach—even in the dark of night, the moonlight is enough to give away their identity. Sumia’s warning ahead of time saved them a lot of trouble, too.

Sully and Stahl slow enough to allow Mark and Robin to jump to the ground; the impact jars Robin’s legs, setting her into the physicality of the moment, and not just the mental tactics of it. Chrom lands beside her, Falchion already in hand. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare.

Robin has yet to see him like this, but the expression is fitting rather than frightening, and she nods. She turns to Mark and hands him his tome. “You’ll need this.”

Mark’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. His lips set into a grim line, and he nods.

“Let’s go!” Chrom calls, nearly barking the order, and he leads the charge into the castle.

Instantly, they’re bombarded by the sights and sounds of battle. The smells, too. Blood and sweat—not to mention the _unmentionable_ things to come from the human body—permeate the air. Black-clothed assassins of all types—mages, axemen, and swordsmen—wage against the Ylissean guards. Several bodies lie on the floor, blood pooling beneath them as weapons flash in the light of lanterns.

There’s barely any time to take stock of the situation before Chrom rushes forward into the fray, moving across the hall. Robin bites back a retort (“Shouldn’t you listen to your tactician before jumping into a battle?”), seeing as he’s already gone and done it, and hurries to stay at his side. She hurls a thunder spell at an incoming axeman, startling him long enough for Chrom to make a clean slice and fell the man.

A blast of electricity whizzes by Robin’s head, and she turns to see a black-clothed mage standing across the hallway, their pale hand outstretched. Their dark eyes widen just before Robin raises her hand, and she hesitates.

Panic bursts in Robin’s chest when she realizes what she did, but then, the mage turns and runs in the opposite direction.

Robin blinks, stunned—the mage is heading away from them, like they’re retreating, and it doesn’t make sense—but then Chrom yanks her out of the way of a sword strike. He darts in front of her and meets the attacker’s swing with the flat of Falchion’s blade.

She snaps out of her distraction and unsheathes her sword, taking advantage of the situation and darting low to stab the man in the stomach. As he falls, Chrom turns to her.

“You all right?”

“Yes.” She can’t believe she lost focus like that. “Sorry. Where’s Mark?” It has only been mere minutes at most, and yet he’s nowhere to be seen.

“He ran ahead. Come on,” Chrom says, ducking into a narrow hallway situated just behind a tapestry. She can barely stay at his side in the cramped passage, and she’s forced to fall back a couple of steps. “These servants’ hallways will lead us toward the staircase that goes up to Emm’s room a lot quicker than the other way.”

There are several rooms in the hallway. Each one is empty aside from supplies or beds; there’s even a small kitchen. There are no people in any of them except for one in the middle. Chrom keeps hurrying ahead, not noticing when Robin stops as someone calls her name.

“Lady Robin!” Felicia runs from the room, a mend staff in one hand and a pair of daggers in the other. Robin turns on her heel to face the girl, and Felicia continues, “Do you need any assistance?”

Robin’s eye takes in her disheveled appearance, and then her gaze moves to the room she came from. There are other servants, hiding behind boxes and furniture, daggers and short swords and even pots and pans in hand. Several of them are elderly, and two are children. One of the women is soothing a baby.

“No,” Robin says at once. “You need to stay here and help protect them.”

“But Her Grace is in danger,” Felicia argues. Her blue eyes are like chips of ice, cold and focused. “We would all lay down our lives for her.”

One of the elderly servants steps forward. He holds his short sword in a practiced grip, but his hands shake. “Felicia is the best of us, my lady. Take her; we can handle ourselves.”

Robin hesitates, looking back to Felicia and weighing the tactical values in her mind. Finally, with a glance at Felicia’s staff, she nods.

“Thank you, La—I’m sorry, Robin,” Felicia says, remembering her preference for a lack of titles. Robin nods, and then they turn and head down the now empty hallway.

“Thank you,” Robin says. “Now, Chrom kept going on toward Emmeryn’s room. We have to catch up to him.”

“Follow me.” Felicia slips forward to take the lead as they run, and she turns a couple corners so fast that Robin nearly misses them. They emerge into another hallway filled with soldiers—and they aren’t just fighting against assassins, but also Risen. Risen axemen, Risen mages, Risen swordfighters, and even Risen that battle using mangled talons. They’re hideous creatures, bodies roiling with black ash, and they’re terrifying.

“Lord Chrom is there,” Felicia says, pointing, and Robin follows her gaze to see her commander in the thick of a group of Risen. Blue fire blazes in his eyes as Falchion flashes through the air like golden lightning. At his back is a red-haired man who fights with far less power, but with more speed and evasion. He wears black, but unlike the rest of the assassins, his face is exposed, and he seems to have more interest in watching Chrom’s back rather than stabbing it.

Robin sends a couple thunder spells at the enemies surrounding them, and then leads Felicia out into the fray. Felicia points out the set of narrow stairs across the large hallway.

“That’s to the royal chambers.”

Robin eyes it. “We’ll clear the way, then.”

Felicia slides her mend staff into a strap on her back, freeing up her hands. With a dagger in each one, she slices at any Risen which comes near with incredible accuracy; she cuts through their wrists, making them incapable of using a weapon, or wounds their legs so they fall. The few human enemies fall to slashes through the neck, and Robin takes care of the wounded with deep stabs of her sword and shocks of electricity.

Yet, even with as many enemies that fall, more Risen appear to take their place. Robin’s sharp eyes catch one _materializing_ at the edge of the hallway, and she grits her teeth. _Mark said once that these monsters can be summoned, and that they’re stronger when the conjurer is near._ _If I can take him out…_

Her eyes scan over the fighting, turning out the flashes and clashes of battle to look for the unusual. The fighters seem blurred out and slowed down to her, almost muted. She looks left, then right, and then back toward the stairwell.

Walking down the corridor is a man. He wears the black clothes of the assassins, but his hood and cloth mask hang around his neck, revealing his face. His skin is dark, not just from the sun but also black magic—he radiates it. His lips curve up in an arrogant smile above his pointed beard. In his slender, sharp-nailed fingers, he carries a thin wooden box, out of which pours a black mist.

Even if Robin can use his apparent overconfidence to her advantage, he exudes an incredible power. She doesn’t know if she can beat him with strength alone, but beat him she must—there is no choice left.

It’s a good thing she has her brains.

“Felicia, follow my lead,” she says before launching an elthunder at the man.

He sees it coming and lifts his free hand to deflect it with his resistance. She can see it jar him, but only slightly, like someone has only given him a small shake. His eyes narrow as he follows the trail of magic, and then his gaze falls on her, her hand still crackling with electricity.

The sorcerer’s eyes widen, raking over her form. Shudders rush down her spine. For a second, neither of them move.

Then, the man turns from his destination and begins to walk toward her, his long legs taking slow yet deliberate steps. Robin snaps into action, tossing another elthunder spell at him before grabbing Felicia’s arm and heading toward the left, where the number of Risen are fewer. She looks over her shoulder to see him deflect her magic and continue after them, his pace only slightly increasing.

“I need a place with vantage points, preferably as far away from the stairs as we can get,” Robin says, still keeping an eye on their rear.

Felicia nods. “The private courtyard, then.” She takes the lead, keeping the Risen that come their way at bay. The man’s box is no longer expelling the black ash—he seems too interested in her to bother—so no more of the undead monsters rise up to take the place of those fallen.

They turn and go through a wooden gate, emerging into the night air. The courtyard is cut off from the rest of the gardens, and up high in the castle wall are windows for those to look out. It’s designed for small gatherings, with a few tables and chairs arranged around a bubbling fountain in the center. A large gazebo is in one corner amidst rosebushes that extend to line the walls; these areas are higher than the courtyard by a small amount, easily accessible by a handful of stairs. Placed all around the center of the courtyard are statues of people long passed. Naga’s more humanoid form sits in the middle, presiding over the fountain with a kind smile and open arms.

“Go hide. Get a good vantage point, and don’t reveal yourself until I get him close to me,” Robin says, moving to an open section of the courtyard. If Felicia has any doubts, she doesn’t show it, and does as she’s told, crouching behind a rosebush.

Robin holds her sword in her right hand, and she feels for the tome in her coat. Her hands feel clammy, and she adjusts her grip on the handle.

It’s agonizing, the wait, but finally the sorcerer turns the corner and comes out into the courtyard. His steps are even and calm, but a wicked grin spreads across his face. He waves his hand upward, his long fingers surrounded by dark magic.

“What a pleasure it is to meet you,” he says, and his voice is deep, but the syllables all slide together like poison flowing from a glass. “Grima’s child has told me about you, but I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. I was hoping to give you the time to grow stronger before coming to collect you, but I suppose now would be as good a time as any.”

His eyes flicker to her hands, and he frowns. “Perhaps I may be too forward. Might you remove your gloves for me, so that I may see for myself if you bear the Mark of Grima?”

Robin’s blood runs cold. Several notions run through her mind—this man knows her, knows she has that symbol on her hand, wants to take her—but the one thought that comes to the forefront is: _I can’t let him live._

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she snaps, casting another thunder spell at him. He deflects it with ease, but she takes his momentary distraction to duck behind one of the many statues. “I think you have the wrong woman!”

He laughs, just once—a huff of amusement. She hears his boots click evenly across the tile. “I’ll have to judge that for myself.”

An elfire blasts at the statue Robin is hiding behind; the flames lick at the edges of her spell-protected coat, the power threatening the charms. She grits her teeth, covers her face with her sleeve, and then rushes to the next statue, away from the sorcerer. She can feel the heat all too well, but she manages to get to new cover without catching fire.

“Where is that little maid of yours?” the sorcerer asks, voice dripping with disdain.

He only wants to keep a tab on their whereabouts—if Felicia is still there, and where exactly Robin is by the sound of her voice. The safest option for herself is to stay silent, she knows, but she can’t do it.

She cups her hands around her mouth in an effort to throw her voice. “With any luck, saving Her Grace from your lackeys.”

She immediately ducks toward a stature to her left, and glances to get a gauge on where the sorcerer is. He’s focused, but not willing to pick up his pace much—but the elfire he sends is certainly within range, catching a little on her pants. She beats it out quickly, then ducks to another statue, and then another.

The sorcerer lets out a frustrated huff through his nose. “So, you’d rather hide like you have all your life instead of facing me head-on?”

She refuses to rise to the bait. She checks around the white statue, and finally, she sees that he’s come closer, and she can’t help the smirk that comes to her lips as her fingers crackle with electricity. She directs the spell to a point, holding out her hand, and the power surges from her fingertips to the statue behind the sorcerer. It barely misses him, and he whirls to start in her direction.

Her spell hits the spindly legs of a statue, causing a deep crack to appear in the stone. It creaks as it falls, and the sorcerer notices just in time to avoid being crushed underneath it as it falls. However, a throwing knife lands onto his robes, slowing him, and the heavy stone lands on his clothing.

Robin screams, grabbing her sword and rushing in. The whites of his eyes flash as he throws up a quick wall of fire for cover, and he grabs a dagger from his hip to slice out at her. Robin flinches at the flames, and his blade cuts through her arm. He sets off another elfire—directly into her.

The force knocks her back far, and her back, her arm, and her shoulder hit statues, or the ground, or just stone, and her skin _burns_. The pain is so immediate that the breath leaves her chest, and she can’t discern where the wounds are on her body. She can’t even _think_.

And then, something cool washes over her, and she shudders as she gasps in air. Her eyes snap open and she tries to take in everything—the sky, the walls, the light. The soft, blue light that comes from a staff, healing her wounds. Felicia is tending to her.

Panic floods through Robin. Her plan is falling apart, and she’s struggling to put together a new one. Her spell-protected coat couldn’t protect her from his magic—his strong, fearsome sorcery—and it’s making her reel. “Get—get out of here,” she coughs.

Felicia is on her knee, staff in one hand and dagger in another. She keeps casting glances toward where the sorcerer is, and she’s tensed to move, but she doesn’t budge. “Just another moment…”

“Felicia, leave me!” Robin scrambles to sit up; the burns are disappearing quickly from her hands and face and legs, but she still feels winded and weak. She finds her tome still in her pocket, but her sword lies on the ground several feet away.

Felicia cuts off the flow of magic and surges to her feet—the sorcerer, his robes cut and burned ragged at the ends—approaches them. Before magic can even light up at his fingertips, Felicia throws her dagger at him. He blocks his face, and the steel embeds in his arm.

“You filthy wench!” he spits as he yanks the weapon out of his flesh. Blood spurts from his wound. He casts elfire at the maid, but she waves her staff and most of the flames dissipate around her, only causing a few embers to land on her skin.

Felicia pulls out another dagger from her garter and sends it flying. It hits his side. Robin takes the moment to rush toward her sword, but the sorcerer wastes no time in aiming for her.

Felicia rushes to intercept the attack.

The elfire hits her in the side, and she gasps in pain. She moves to lift her staff, but the man is quicker, firing spell after spell at her, hitting her repeatedly and driving her backward.

“ _Felicia_!”

Robin doesn’t know what she should do—shield Felicia? Grab her? Pick up her sword and run the sorcerer through?—but all the same, she rushes forward.

Charred flesh and burnt hair assaults Robin’s sense of smell. And then it hits her that Felicia is on the ground, her skin covered in red and black blotches and her clothes scorched.

Robin’s eyes widen, and her legs freeze up. She stares at Felicia, searching for signs of life—movement, breathing, the flutter of eyelids. Anything.

“…Felicia?” she whispers. “Felicia?”

There is no response.

“Hmph.” The sorcerer looks disdainfully at the limp form on the ground. “To throw herself in front of my attack... She was stronger than I would have imagined to survive so many hits.”

Robin’s hands form into fists. Her arms shake. She keeps looking at Felicia and honestly can’t tell whether or not the girl is breathing.

“If you would fight, pick up your sword, then,” says the sorcerer. “That, or accept your fate.”

Her lip quivers, and a scowl twists her mouth. She reaches down slowly and picks up her sword, glaring at the sorcerer all the while.

With no warning, she darts forward, slicing downward. The sorcerer is not quick, but his magic covers his arms almost like gauntlets, and he parries her blow. She yells out in frustration and swings almost wildly, and he meets the flat of the blade as easily as if he were dealing with a child.

“I’m disappointed,” he sneers. “For someone with so much untapped potential like you to be reduced to this after just one death.”

“You filthy _murderer_!” she snaps, and she raises her leg and delivers a kick to his gut. It winds him and he staggers backward a step.

She raises her sword high, but then, the sound of splintering glass comes from above, and Robin looks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I reread this work to continue it, I was surprised that I had included Felicia. However, this was always my plan for her.


	14. xiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan battles against Lucina in hopes of protecting Emmeryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: Suicidal thoughts, blood, and siblings genuinely trying to kill each other.

Second

“We can’t waste any more time,” Severa said, her eyes wet. “We have to try again.”

The future children all sat around the small flame Laurent cast to keep them warm. It didn’t let off smoke, nor was there enough light to give away their position. Under the clouds, there was no other way to see, and it was hard to make out anything besides faces.

“I agree,” Owain said, sitting beside her. For once, he wasn’t spouting nonsense about being a hero. He ran a hand through his hair, and the light highlighted the bags around his eyes.

“We’ll only fail again,” Gerome huffed. He rubbed at Minerva’s scales. “What do you suppose we do, go back in time again and again until we get things right? We’ll all be dead by then.”

“Some of us will,” Nah muttered.

“I definitely will,” Yarne said, trembling.

Laurent waved his hand. “We cannot be thinking like this. Statistically, yes, we will probably die…but that does not mean that we should give up! Lucina herself once said ‘hope will never die,’ and we can only continue on with that in mind.”

Inigo sat with his knees held up against his chest, chin on his legs. He perked up at the mention of her name, but anyone could see the exhaustion in his eyes. His smile was only slight. “You’re right. We can’t give up now.”

“What say you, Morgan?” Kjelle asked, turning toward him.

Morgan sat huddled with his coat hunched up around his shoulders, the fabric covering his ears. But he could still hear.

He just shook his head. He hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words in days, now. It wasn’t until that morning that he had found the motivation to wash his father’s blood off Falchion. The sword sat heavy in his lap.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he could take it and shove it into his heart.

“…Hey.” Severa snapped. Her arms were crossed over her chest. “She asked you a question.”

Once, Severa’s snippy attitude would have made him smile. But he couldn’t even muster the strength to shake his head. “What does my opinion matter?”

Severa stood. “You’re the one who has Falchion! You’re Lucina’s brother! You’re the crown prince here! So, you tell me!”

“Severa, please…” Owain stood as well and took hold of her arm, gently. “We can’t be fighting like this.”

“I’ll fight him all I have to until he turns around!” She wrenched her arm out of his grip, and hurt flashed across Owain’s eyes. She stomped straight over to Morgan; Laurent stood as if to try to pacify her, but she passed right by him.

“Get up.”

Morgan lifted his eyes up toward her. He didn’t speak.

She huffed. She stood at an angle to the light, and it outlined only half of her scowling face. “What’s your problem? Do you think you get to be the only one sad and mopey about all of this? Did you forget—did you forget that we lost our families too? _Twice_?!”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to spill over. “You can’t give up, Morgan. You can’t _ever_ give up.”

He didn’t realize when he started to cry. They were silent tears at first, but when he realized they were there, his voice broke. “But I… I don’t know what to do. If we go back, I d-don’t know…how I can face my p-parents…?”

How could he face them without Lucina at his side? How could he face them when he had seen them die? He couldn’t remember their deaths in the previous world, but now that he had experienced it firsthand, he didn’t think he could even take the chance again without going mad.

“You idiot…” Severa crouches down, a pained but affectionate smile on her face as she patted his hair. “We’ll help you. You won’t have to do it alone.”

He met her eyes in the dim light.

“…It’s hard,” she said, so soft that he almost couldn’t hear. “But I know you can do it.”

* * *

 

Morgan’s chest heaves for breath. Falchion’s grip is cold in his hands as he stares down Lucina. Off to his left stands Emmeryn, her hands on her staff and her tome.

Lucina shakes her head, and an amused chuckle leaves her lips. “Why are you here? Did you think you could protect her?”

“I will stop you,” Morgan says. He’s surprised how easily the words come from his mouth, how hard they sound. “You will not harm her.”

“You’ll have to kill me to do that.” She raises Erebus with one hand almost lazily to point at him. “Do you really think you can do that, _Morgan_?”

The name lands in his gut like a javelin. Lucina rushes him, her blade in both hands, and he only barely has enough time to block her blow. The impact jars his arms, but he grits his teeth and pushes her back with a strength he didn’t know he had.

She recovers easily and backs up a step just out of reach, falling into a ready stance. She’s smiling, a wicked expression lighting up her eyes.

“Will you ever grow up, Morgan?” she taunts. “Only children play dress-up and parade around with delusions of grandeur. Would you like to end up like your cousin, dying while playing at being hero?”

His blood boils. He tries not to remember Owain’s death, but he blinks, and he can see his cousin’s blood arcing through the air. He can hear in his ears how Severa shrieked at the sight, and a scream of his own tears from Morgan’s throat as the launches himself at Lucina.

She easily parries the blow, but he doesn’t let her take the opening and guards. And then he pushes forward, righteous fury fueling his blows. He feels stronger in that moment, like all he needs is his hands on her to rip her apart for all that she’s done, for all that she’s trying to do. But she is still cold and calculated, seeing his moves almost before they happen and evading Falchion’s blade. Yet still, she loses ground against him.

“Why do you fight so, when you know you will lose in the end?” she continues. “Perhaps Grima will allow you to live if you just—!”

“ _Shut_ —” He raises his boot. “— _UP_!”

He kicks her hard in the stomach and she stumbles backward, but grabs his leg before he has the time to pull back. She lashes out with Erebus; he’s too unbalanced to bring up Falchion, so instead, he falls back. The very tip of Lucina’s blade slices into his forehead, and knocks his mask off—the metal grinds into his nose before flying off, and blood spurts from both his face and his nostrils.

“Mark!” someone calls, and it takes him a moment to register that means _him_ , and that Emmeryn is blasting wind magic—Lucina’s grip on him loosens, and he pulls away in time to avoid being thrown against the wall with her.

He staggers to regain his footing, but blood falls into his eyes, and he can’t see. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, and that’s when the pain registers to him.

His forehead _burns_. It doesn’t sting with the usual bite of pain from a wound, but it feels like someone is pressing a torch into the hairline cut, trying to shove it into his skull. He cries out, the sensation momentarily causing him to forget the battle and the fact that he needs to protect Emmeryn. He wants to curl up and dunk his head under water, or hurl himself from the window and end the agony.

He hears another call out to him, and the pain starts to recede—it’s still there, digging into his skull, but now he can blink open his eyes and see.

Which is good, because Lucina is rushing him again.

He ducks and rolls out of the way, kicking out a leg and tripping her up. He didn’t expect it to work—she must have been overconfident, thinking him blind—so his follow up is sloppy. He stands and lunges forward, slicing; Lucina rolls away on her side, but he still puts a shallow cut across her stomach.

She screams, in pain as much as anger, and he rushes her again. She rises up on one knee and throws her weight into her swing, awkwardly but effectively parrying Falchion. He’s thrown off balance enough that his counter is slow—she clumsily blocks it again. He pulls back his arms, readying a stab to her chest, but then she stands and punches him straight in the jaw.

He slams against the floor, and all his breath leaves him. He gasps a moment later, and his eyes widen as Lucina stands above him. She is panting, one hand pressed against the blood leaking from her lower abdomen—there’s so much that he realizes he landed another blow on her when she punched him—and her other grips Erebus tightly. She stands outlined against the window, the brightness of the moon throwing her into shadow, but her tattoos and her eyes still glow with an eerie crimson.

She steps on his sword arm, and his hand presses against not just Falchion, but the tome in his coat.

A scowl twists Lucina’s mouth, and she flicks her wrist. Erebus flashes, and pain and blood burst from his chest.

“A small taste of anguish before you die,” she snarls.

She lets go of her stomach to grasp Erebus with both hands, aiming the point straight down for his heart. She lifts it—

—and Morgan draws power from his tome and screams, pointing his free hand at her.

“ _Thoron_!”

The powerful lightning magic shoots from his fingers and instantly jolts into her. The force blasts her away from him, and he watches, as if in slow motion, as her body crashes through the window.

In his mind’s eye, he sees his mother stabbing his father with a dagger of electricity. In his mind’s eye, he sees his father fall. In his mind’s eye, he sees his sister break again.

“ _LUCINA_!” he screams, scrambling upward and reaching out his hand, but she is already out of sight. His entire body hurts, aches, and _burns_ , but he crawls to the window, heedless of the broken glass. His stomach feels ice cold, and he doesn’t want to look, but he sticks out his head.

The courtyard beneath is so full of activity that he can hardly take it in. The moonlight shines against his mother’s hair, and up behind her hurries his father, Falchion flashing to dispatch the Risen in their midst. Other Ylisseans come in behind him, but Morgan’s gaze searches the throng of fighting, desperate.

Finally, they settle on his sister. She is limp, her eyes closed and her tattoos pale for the moment. She is soaking wet; she lies in the fountain, the arm of Naga’s statue broken off in a heap beside her. She landed on it before falling in.

Validar is there, picking her up. Her head lolls. Magic bursts from his fingers, and several of the Risen cover him as some sort of spell—teleportation, most likely, although such magic is limited and tricky to master—causes the two of them to disappear.

The horror in Morgan’s gut seizes his body, freezing him in place. _Is she alive? Did I…?_

A sudden weariness overpowers him, and he slumps backward. Soft, warm hands catch him and pull him close. His eyes open, and the moonlight illuminates Emmeryn’s pale skin and blonde curls. She gasps, and he can’t understand why.

“A-are you hurt?” he asks, searching her face with as much strength as he can muster.

Tears fall from her eyes, and she shakes her head. “No, I am not. Thank you so much…”

His entire body feels heavy, lethargic. The pain of his wounds confuses him, muddling his mind. “Lucina is…?”

“Shh, just stay with me…”

Emmeryn grabs her staff, and the glowing from it is the last thing he sees before his eyes fall closed.

()()()

He feels like he’s swimming through icy, murky liquid, far too dense to be water. His limbs are sluggish and weak. He’s running out of air, and his lungs scream for mercy, begging for him to open his mouth. He tightens his jaw and swims toward where he thinks is _up_ , and then his body convulses. He slaps his hands over his lips, desperate, but then he shakes again and his lungs verge on collapsing within himself.

Finally, he gasps.

His eyes snap open and he sees a low ceiling above him. The glow and warmth of a fire radiates from somewhere across the small room. He feels a soft bed underneath his back, and light sheets cover his body up to his stomach. Bandages wrap his otherwise bare chest, and the tight sensation on his head points to the same just below his hairline. The cold weight of his mask sits on his face; luckily, his nose isn’t tender with swelling.

A sweeping ache rolls down his body. He wriggles his toes, testing them, and curls his hands as well. He tries to move his arm to check his bandages, but his limb is so heavy, he groans.

“…Mark?”

The word is half-formed and sleepy. Morgan turns his head to see that he is not alone in the room. There is another bed with a patient in it, covered in so many bandages that the only identifier than he can discern from his view is the swell of their chest.

Between the beds is a chair, upon which sits Emmeryn. Her blonde curls are frazzled; she’s tied them behind her head to keep them out of her face. Her skin is pale, and her eyes are red and bloodshot.

“You’re awake,” she says, and a sigh full of relief passes her lips. She stands and comes to kneel beside him. “You’ve been asleep for over a day. How are you feeling?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “A-alive…”

“A blessing from Naga,” Emmeryn says. She hesitates, and then slowly pats his hair. It’s soothing. “The wounds from her sword caused you great pain, even when I was doing my best to heal them. They do not close easily, even with magic, so please do not move too much. Although…”

She glances toward the other patient, her eyes wet. “Phila’s wounds do not have the same problem as yours. However, even still…”

Her tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Are—are you okay?” he says with a cough.

She nods. “All thanks to my knights, and you. Not very long after you collapsed, the Shepherds came and managed to defeat the Risen. All the assassins died or fled… The leader left with Lucina.”

Morgan’s jaw tightens. He’s afraid to speak, but he forces the words past his lips. “Was she…alive?”

“I cannot say for certain.” She hesitates, like she’s uncomfortable. “A…normal person would have died from such wounds, and from falling from such a height.”

He winces; Emmeryn of all people speaking about death from falling leaves a horrendous taste in his mouth. “But Lucina is not normal.”

She simply nods at his understatement. “…As I said, all the other assassins died or fled, except for one, who calls himself a thief. He’s been most cooperative in giving us information, although he was only hired recently for a ‘heist.’”

A chuckle passes Morgan’s lips, and what with the state of his chest, the motion caused by his action feels like he’s being stabbed with a dull knife. “Is it Gaius?”

Emmeryn blinks. “Why, yes.”

“He’s….trustworthy.” Morgan has to continually find his breath to speak. His mind is still hazy with sleep and pain, and it makes his tongue loose. “A good father to a friend of mine…”

Emmeryn looks down, a flash of discomfort on her face. Her voice is hardly even a whisper. “Mark… I…heard what Lucina called you. Your name. And I saw the Brand in your eye.”

There’s a moment when he hears her words, but doesn’t understand them.

Then, heavy hurt—failure—falls over him. He can’t speak.

“I…had suspected as much, to be honest,” she continues. “Falchion can only be wielded by those of Naga’s blood. However…this is a closely-guarded secret even among House Ylisse, as you may or may not know. My father only permitted Chrom to even touch Falchion; I know not whether Chrom knows of this, or if he believes it is merely handed down to the warriors of royal blood. Thus, I cannot guarantee that he is aware of your…lineage. He could think that you stole it, for all I am aware. I would ask, but…I am afraid of revealing your identity to him.”

She pauses. “I will not ask you whether you are my son, or Chrom’s, or Lissa’s, or perhaps even a distant relative of some sort… I promised you that much. But, I…I realize now how foolish it was, to offer your family protection, when _this_ is the outcome.” She doesn’t need to gesture to him, or to Phila, or to the castle, but she does.

An overwhelming sadness and loneliness weighs on Morgan’s heart. He blinks, and there are tears in his eyes. He prays to the gods that they don’t fall down his cheeks. “Your offer…was kind enough. And I thank you for it.”

She nods. “I…” And then, her eyes focus, and she looks straight at him. “You risked your life for me and my kingdom. Your valor is something that I will never forget so long as I live, and even after I finally return to Naga’s side. I will support you from here on out…Morgan.”

He doesn’t expect her to use his name. Nor does he expect for a sudden warmth to pool in his chest, for someone to call his true name with an emotion other than scorn and hatred. His vision grows blurry, and tears fall from his eyes, slipping quickly down his cheeks.

“Please, do not call me that again,” he says after several moments, his voice nearly broken. “In case of eavesdroppers.”

“Of course.” She hesitates, but reaches out and touches his shoulder. “I have one request of you, Mark.”

“What is it?”

“I would…” She pauses, and then shakes her head. “No, not now. You are still weak, and need your rest. Once you have recovered, I will ask you.”

He nods. At her mention of “rest,” the haziness in his head multiplies. “I think…that I will sleep.”

She smiles. “Rest well.”

He can swear that she says his name—his real name—one last time, but then, he is asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, an update just a week later? Am I sane?


	15. xv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Graphic descriptions of corpses; funerals.

_first, second_ , and _third_

“Mother?”

Morgana was in the middle of her turn. Her lips were pursed, her brown eyes narrowed. This expression had become more common as of late, when they played a tactics game. Robin wondered, not for the first time, if her mother was just growing old, or if Robin was starting to outgrow her.

It took Morgana a moment to realize Robin had spoken. A wooden figure Robin had made for her last birthday—affectionately named _Alm_ —was in her grasp before she looked up. “What is it?”

Robin had thought this conversation over a thousand times. It had been useless, of course—speaking on serious topics with her mother never went according to plan. “I’m twenty years old.”

“You have been for two weeks.” Morgana set Alm down beside an ally on the front lines and used her saint to heal him from afar. She kept track of his health on a scrap of parchment beside the board, writing in tiny letters.

“It’s just an odd thought,” Robin said slowly. Her own team was new to her—they were a birthday present to her, actually, although Morgana had made them with more skill than Robin thought she herself would ever be able to accomplish. The leader was Princess Celica of Valmese lore, skilled in swordplay, magic, and even healing—the last of which Robin wished she knew more than the basics of. She was a bit envious of the tiny piece of wood.

Robin considered her next move, and set out two guards before moving Celica between them and casting magic at Alm’s ally, Clive. Clive wore a hexlock shield, but Robin rolled a critical, and Morgana huffed, half-amused as she took him off the field. Even with the shield, Clive had gods-awful resistance.

“I’m an adult,” Robin continued, “is what I mean. I’ve _been_ one for a while now.”

“No boys, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Morgana said, peering at the board. She pulled Alm back just out of Celica’s reach and called up reinforcements. “Girls are okay. They probably won’t get you pregnant.”

“Mother,” she groaned. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh?”

Robin bit her lip. She used an extra magic user to heal one of her saints, then decided _fuck it, it isn’t like this is the_ real _Celica, and she’s got good enough stats to last one turn_ , and used her saint to warp her leader closer to her mother’s vanguard. She had Celica cast Ragnarok at Alm; while he wasn’t nearly as bad as Clive, he still fell.

“Risky, but well done,” Morgana praised, pulling Alm off the battlefield. “You’d best be—”

“I’m ready to know about my father.”

The words were out of her mouth before she realized it.

Morgana’s expression hardened. “He is someone I hope you never, ever meet. I’ve told you that.”

“You’ve never even told me his name, or what he looks like.” Frustration started to pour out of Robin’s skin. Her hands balled into fists. “It’s always, ‘stay away from the Grimleal, just pretend you’re a follower to stay safe,’ and you have never told me why. I mean—gods, Mother, I know why the _Grimleal_ are frightening. They care only for pleasing their death god, and if they ever see my hand they’ll probably sacrifice me on a spit or something—”

“Shh!” Morgana snapped, her eyes widening. “Not so loud, even at home.”

“That’s it.” Robin couldn’t stop the words tumbling from her mouth. “You always treat me like a child, shielding me from all the bad things so that I can’t even know the truth.”

She grabbed her pieces and started to put them in her sack with the rest of her heroes. “How do you expect me to protect myself when I don’t know anything?”

“The more you know, the more danger you’ll be in,” Morgana hissed. “You have to listen to me about this.”

“How could I be in more danger?” Robin stood, nearly toppling her chair over in her haste. “The more a tactician knows, the better. And—and why haven’t we ever crossed into Ylisse? We’d be refugees, but we’d be safe from the Grimleal.”

“You know the border is too well-guarded for that.”

“People still escape from here. You probably hear even more rumors than I do. Like those mountains in the northeast, and crossing the lake there. Ferox is cold, but we could take that, too.”

Morgana leaned back in her chair and put a hand to her temple. “Robin—we can’t. We just can’t risk the border guards.”

The frustration that Robin had felt her whole life bubbled into fury—because finally, _finally_ , she had felt old enough, _confident_ enough to know. And here her mother still was, treating her like a child.

“I want to understand you, Mother. Gods, I do.” Robin shook her head. “Whatever. It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

“Robin,” Morgana started, but Robin didn’t look back as she stomped into the bedroom.

She waited hours for her mother to fall asleep, and then left without a word.

* * *

 

Nearly three hours after the fighting ended, Robin finally closes the door behind her and finds herself in the bedroom she was given when she first arrived.

It’s quiet.

The large windows let in the grey-blue light of the morning before sunrise. The air is still. Her bedroom is untouched, the bedsheets clean and set straight, with a mountain of pillows at the headboard. She wonders if Felicia made the bed.

She doesn’t flinch at the thought. Numbness overtakes not just her limbs, but her mind. She moves automatically, pulling off her dirty, bloody boots and tossing them aside. Even her socks and feet are somehow splattered with blood. She takes out her sword and her tomes and puts them on the desk.

She goes into the bathroom and peels off her clothes. They’re so sweaty and grimy that they stick to her like a second skin. She draws water into the bath, too tired and defeated to even marvel at the wonder that she never had growing up. She sits down before the water even fills up the very bottom, and scrubs her legs. The water turns brownish before it reaches her hips.

After she washes her hair, she gets out. She only feels marginally better, and decides that she doesn’t care about anything but going to bed. She grabs her cloak, as pungent as it’s become, and takes it with her. She barely gets under the covers before her head hits a pillow and she falls asleep.

()()()

_Felicia’s body is cold._

_Robin thought that it should be scalding. Felicia’s skin is red and black, parts of her clothes burned away, and the sickening smell of singed hair and cooked flesh rolls off her._

_Robin fights off the bile rising in her throat as she carries Felicia’s body. They’re gathering the fallen Ylisseans together in the ballroom to take stock of them, and to plan a proper burial. The bodies of the assassins, along with whatever items they may have dropped, are being taken to another room to be inspected._

_Nothing quite feels real._

_Felicia is light in her arms, lighter than she would have thought. The bustle around the castle is loud, but she doesn’t hear it, barely sees it—she can only see what’s right in front of her. She can’t quite remember what to do except to keep moving._

_The inside of the ballroom is large, grand, and polished. The ceiling is high, painted to replicate the cycle of the day—in the east is the blue-grey of the rising sun; the middle is deep blue dotted with white clouds; and the west is the red of sunset. The room was untouched during the attack, leaving the walls a pristine white and gold, and the curtains by the windows a rich blue. The floor, however, is streaked with blood and grime._

_There lay lines of the dead, in the middle. Mostly soldiers, some whole, others missing limbs—one lays just beneath his severed head._

_“Right here,” a priestess in the ballroom says, directing her to a line where fallen servants stretch. There aren’t as many as soldiers—and in all honesty, Robin knows that the number of fallen soldiers isn’t nearly as high as it could be—but this sight strikes her in the gut._

_She recognizes some of the ashen faces._

_Robin blinks, and her mind places them. The last one in line is an elderly man, his once trembling hands now still. There’s another, younger man, his arm barely connected to his elbow and a gash in his chest. A few people down lies a young woman, her arms laid carefully around a bundle in her arms._

_They are people that Felicia was protecting. People who Robin took Felicia from._

_A wave of nausea washes over her, and her knees feel weak. She forces herself to remember that she’s carrying Felicia’s body, and tries to focus on_ doing _. Moving. She can move._

_She lays Felicia down on the marble floor, and gently arranges her remaining hair around her. Robin thinks maybe, if one were to ignore the blistered and blackened skin, Felicia looks like she might be sleeping. She also thinks that whoever would believe that is out of their gods-damned mind._

_The longer Robin kneels there and looks at Felicia, the more unbidden thoughts fly to the forefront of her mind:_ Felicia would have protected these people. Felicia was stronger than I’d ever thought. Felicia saved my life and I barely even knew her nor did I deserve _—_

Robin’s eyes snap open.

Sometimes, reality takes a moment to come back to her when she wakes up. That’s not the case this morning.

Everything is _real_ , in that moment. Her body is clean—the silk sheets on her bare skin intensifies that feeling—and it aches. There are no wounds on her anymore, just bruises and sore muscles. Her legs feel like lead, and her arms as stiff as swords. Her head hurts—she must have only gotten three or four hours of sleep at most.

She remembers everything, too.

First to come to her mind is Felicia. Mostly images of her grotesque corpse, and the way she died right in front of Robin.

_I didn’t know her,_ Robin thinks. _She offered to come with us, and I turned her down. And last night, I just needed her staff. And, I…_

She took Felicia from people who needed her to help protect them. And Robin’s decision ended up with not only Felicia killed, but innocents—not soldiers, _civilians_.

She isn’t a stranger to death. The elderly and the weak don’t last long in Plegian slums or in the heat of villages, and they especially don’t last long with the lackluster aid from the Mad King. She’s seen people at death’s doorstep and beyond it. But before this, the only deaths she caused were pieces on a game board.

Robin puts her hands over her eyes, blocking out the sunlight coming in through the windows. She realizes that she forgot to put her gloves back on after her bath, but at the moment, she doesn’t care. Her breathing stutters, and she tries to fight back the tears, but they come all the same.

()()()

She regrets not cleaning at least her coat. Her normal clothes can be cleaned with a spell—not as well as by hand, unfortunately—but her cloak was charmed to protect against all types of spells, and something as harmless as a cleaning spell would bounce right off. She feels naked without it, but the stench of it is worse; she takes out everything from her pockets, and comes upon her little bag of heroes.

She puts it on her desk.

She washes her cloak and puts it up to dry, then spell-cleans her other clothes and puts them on. She holsters her sword and a tome in her belt.

There’s no one around her quarters except a couple of guards along the hallway. She has to ask them how to get to a place where she can eat. One leads her down to the main floor, to the banquet room. The immensely long table is laden with food, free for anyone in the castle to eat while the cleaning and reorganizing efforts take place. Unsurprisingly, Stahl is seated and eating lunch; Miriel and Vaike are with him. Even the blond muscleman, ever the ball of energy, looks tired.

Robin suddenly doesn’t feel hungry. But Stahl looks up and gives her a wave, and she plasters a passable smile on her face. She grabs a plate and comes to sit beside the group.

“Hungry?” Stahl manages to swallow his food before he speaks, unlike usual. He offers her a leg of turkey from his own plate. “This is really good, try it.”

“Thanks,” she says. She takes it and a biscuit from one of the platters, figuring it’ll be more than enough for her lack of appetite. As she bites into the turkey, the smell of cooked meat wafts into her nose. Immediately, she spits it out, coughing.

“Hey!” Vaike slaps her so hard on the back that her skin stings. “You good?”

“Coughing means she is not in danger of having a completely blocked respiratory passage,” Miriel says, placing a glass of water in front of Robin.

Robin takes a long draught of the water and breathes. She coughs again, but not nearly as much. She blinks her watery eyes and turns to thank Miriel, but when she opens her mouth, all she can think is _I’ll fail her, too._

The thought strikes her, rooting her to the spot. Vaike and Stahl notice her sudden quiet; Vaike taps her on the back and Stahl gives her a quizzical look. And all she can see is flashes of the purple on her hand and flashes of the red in Lucina’s eyes, and all she can think is, _I’m going to get them killed._

She suddenly gains control of herself and pushes her plate away; the further away the meat is, the less her stomach roils. “I’m not hungry.”

Stahl stares at her like she just said she hates rainbows and kittens and all things good in the world. “But—you fought yesterday. And we marched all day. Are you…okay?” He says it like she has some sort of mental disease.

Miriel adjusts her glasses and peers at Robin. “Your complexion is pallid. Perhaps you have an illness? It is possible to contract them from bodily fluids, such as blood and bile and feces, and last night—”

“I think you’re making me less hungry, Miriel,” Robin sighs. It’s all she can do not to grit her teeth and vomit what little she’s just eaten. “I just… I’ll eat later. I should go find Chrom.”

The three all look concerned, but Vaike shrugs. “He was just here. I think he went to go see about the assassins last night. Their bodies were all taken and put in the south wing.”

“Thanks.” Robin nods her head and stands, trying not to show how shaky she is. “I guess I’ll see you guys later.”

()()()

She doesn’t go looking for Chrom.

Instead, she goes to one of the other wings on the second floor. So many guards are posted here that she feels like they’ll gut her just by looking at them the wrong way, despite her clearance to go nearly wherever she wishes. She can’t help but notice that only a handful of the soldiers are pegasus knights.

A couple of the women stand outside of the private infirmary. The one with long, fiery hair nods as Robin approaches. “Tactician Robin. What may we help you with?”

“I was hoping to see how things were doing,” Robin says quietly. “Is it all right to go in?”

“Just a moment,” the pegasus knight replies. She knocks on the door and enters. When she returns, she nods. “Her Grace and Lady Lissa await you inside.”

Robin nods her thanks and quietly enters. The room is lit only by the fireplace and the glow from Lissa’s and Emmeryn’s staves as they care for their two unconscious charges. On the farther bed is Phila, wrapped in bandages—especially around her neck and chest. On the closer is Mark; bandages are on his forehead beneath his mask, and around his bare chest. Blood seeps through the fabric, and his skin is pale and clammy-looking.

“Robin,” Emmeryn says, nodding without looking up. She stands above Mark’s bed, slowly passing her healing staff over his form. “Is something the matter?”

_Yes_ , she wants to say. She wants to say that she’s being crushed under the weight of the deaths on her hands, the ones that will be on her hands. That she’s terrified of the sorcerer who knew her. That she wants to shake Mark awake and make him tell her about her hand, about that man, and about _herself._

“I just wanted to check in,” she says quietly, wrapping her hands around her arms. “How are they doing?”

Lissa halts her healing for the moment and wipes sweat from her brow. “It’s been really touch-and-go, but they’re steadying,” she replies, equally soft. “Maribelle’s been helping, too, but she needed a break. We’re taking shifts.”

“Have you had yours?”

“I was the first one.”

Robin nods. “Good. The march and the fighting last night was probably too much for the Shepherds,” she whispers, trying to pretend that she’s had sufficient rest and food.

“We’ve done all we can for Phila; the rest is up to her now,” Emmeryn says, and her voice catches on the name. Still, she continues. “Mark…his wounds do not heal well. They open very easily. There is a change, but it’s very gradual. We have to clean and change his bandages often.”

Robin frowns. She feels on edge, just standing and watching. It doesn’t help when her only source of information—as frugal with it as he may be—could be on his deathbed. “They were both wounded by Lucina, right? Did she have more than one weapon—one regular, one cursed?”

Emmeryn shakes her head. “All she had was her sword. It could be a particular kind of curse, designed to target only certain people. But we cannot say who at this point.”

The Exalt cuts the flow of magic to her staff and sits upon a chair placed between the beds. She turns to Robin and gives her an exhausted smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Robin hesitates. She nods quickly, quietly, like a scared child.

“…Lissa,” Emmeryn says. “Things are all right for now. Would you go and fetch Maribelle, and some more vulneraries?”

Lissa looks between them. Then, she huffs. “Why doesn’t anyone ever tell _me_ anything?” But still, she leaves her staff behind and exits the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Emmeryn waits a moment, then nods to Robin. “What is on your mind?”

“I…don’t think that I’m cut out to be tactician.”

The admission leaves her lips with difficulty, and then it hangs in the air between them. She didn’t plan on saying anything like this to Emmeryn—her hope was that Mark would be awake, that maybe he would finally tell her about everything, that maybe she would finally be ready and willing to listen—but with his condition, she doesn’t know what to do.

The Exalt considers her words, folding her fingers together. “…I had no desire to become Exalt. I wanted to help my people find peace and happiness, but I had seen what my father had done to not just Plegia, but our own country. I was afraid of falling into his footsteps and failing my people.

“In the beginning of my reign, Ylisse was slow to heal. The deaths during that time—the people blamed it on me.”

There is quiet. Robin doesn’t speak, not knowing if she should.

“I wanted to give complete control to my advisors and run,” Emmeryn continues. “I was nine, ten years old. Someone that young should never have to rule. But even then, I knew that shaking the foundation of this country would disrupt the healing process and prolong the suffering of my people. And if they needed a scapegoat, I was willing to be it.

“So, I stayed.” She closes her eyes.

When she opens them, the Exalt’s gaze pierces her. “Were we in a kinder time, and were I…were I not taking the advice of someone dear to me, I would let you decide for yourself whether or not to remain as Ylisse’s tactician—it is a hard job, and I do not doubt that last night’s deaths have shaken you. However, you are intelligent, skilled, and despite the short time you have worked under us, Chrom has only ever praised you—his letter from your trip accredited you with securing Regna Ferox’s allegiance. You already have his trust, to a degree that I must say I have not seen from him before, even if he does wear his heart on his sleeve.

“For these reasons, I cannot allow you to step down from your position in any fashion. I will aid you in all that I can, however. You will not have to bear this burden alone.”

Robin swallows, fighting back the arguments rising her in her throat. “I…understand.”

Emmeryn sighs. “I must apologize, Robin. We have not had strategists of such raw skill since the last perished in the previous war. I abhor battle, but…if I must defend Ylisse, I refuse to sit idle and lose the opportunities available to me. I will never have us strike first, but I need you.”

It takes all of Robin’s willpower to nod. Her mind is whirling a mile a minute. “I…apologize. This is all so new to me, and I didn’t foresee how the realities of war would affect me.” She lowers her head. “If this is your will, then I will continue to act in the best interests of Ylisse.”

A breath leaves Emmeryn, and finally, her smile reaches her eyes. “Thank you, Robin. I promise, the proper compensation will be given to you. I’ll arrange for the payment as soon as possible; you deserve it after your accomplishments in Regna Ferox.”

“Then, if I may, I will take my leave.”

Emmeryn nods and motions toward the door. She gives Robin one last kind smile before the tactician leaves.

()()()

Robin finds that she has a better appetite when she has a plan of action to fall back on.

She barely has to force herself to eat. It helps that she goes into the banquet hall at a slow time; there aren’t any Shepherds to distract her. She ignores the meat in favor of fish and fruit, and she piles biscuits, breads, and cheeses on a plate to take with her. Some of the servants eye her as she passes, but don’t comment. _I’m just burning the midnight oil on some plans,_ she repeats in her head, ready to say it at a moment’s notice.

She gets to her room without bumping into anyone, and she puts her plate on her desk and goes to check on her coat. It’s still damp, the damn thing, but she just switches around timeframes in her head and decides that it’s better this way, anyway. Still, she takes it from the bathroom and puts it on a chair near the window.

She goes back to her desk and searches through her things for an empty sack. She puts her food in it, and just when she finishes, a knock sounds at her door.

“W-what is it?” she squawks. She shoves her (stolen?) food in a drawer and tries to compose herself. It’s a bit hard to do when she’s so tired, and so frazzled.

“It’s me.” Chrom’s voice wafts from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”

“It’s open.”

He comes into the room. There are slight bags under his eyes—he probably got as short a rest as Robin did. He lifts a sack the size of his fist and shakes it, and the ring of coins sounds out. “It’s payday.”

She can’t help the smile that comes to her face. “Did your sister send you here?”

“She just wanted me to arrange it.” He comes and stands in front of her, holding out the coin purse. “I came here of my own accord.”

“Did you, now?” She takes the bag from him. It’s heavier than it looks, and she knows without checking that it’s more money than she’s ever carried in her life. A sudden, deep appreciation fills her. “…Thank you.”

“Hm? You deserve it.”

Yesterday she may have accepted those words, but now, with an idea in her head and food stashed in her drawer, she can’t. But still, her fingers grip the coin purse, and she puts it on the desk.

Chrom raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

She nearly panics, her eyes flicking toward the drawer—it’s still closed—and then she realizes he means the other small sack on the desk. She picks it up and opens it, revealing the tiny wooden characters inside.

She pulls out one at random. “My mother and I made pieces for our tactics games. They’re all named after heroes. This is Celica, Queen of Valentia. Or, what Valm used to be. I think.”

“They’re incredible,” he says. He gestures to the bag. “May I look? Maybe Marth is inside.”

She laughs—and she wonders when, in such a short time, Chrom was able to make her laugh whenever, wherever—and he pulls out another small carving. He peers at the stand. “Alm? Ah, the first king of Valm. Odd luck, picking out the married ones,” he jokes.

She doesn’t catch his words. “Can I see that?”

“Of course.” He hands her the tiny playing piece, and she inspects the base. Sure enough, _ALM_ is inscribed in the wood.

“…Is something the matter?” Chrom asks.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just…this is a piece I made for my mother. I must have packed it in my bag without realizing it.”

“Oh. I see.” He goes quiet. Then: “…Do you miss her?”

“…Yes,” she admits. Her mind is racing, far, far away from the room. But his words tether her, at least in part, to their conversation. “Terribly.”

“…My mother died giving birth to Lissa,” he says. “I mean…if you ever need someone to talk to. I might be able to help. Maybe.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods, a bit of relief flashing through his eyes. “All right.”

There’s a beat where neither say anything. Then, realizing the quiet, Robin hurriedly shifts through her pieces. It takes a minute, but she procures the one she was looking for and presents it to Chrom. The wood is old and worn, the carving and inscription particularly crude.

“This is Marth,” she says. She feels like an eager but embarrassed child. “He was the first one I ever carved.”

“Oh?” He smiles, and even laughs a little as he takes it and inspects it. “Better than I could ever do, I think.”

“You can have him. For the time being.”

Chrom blinks. “But would you not have more use for it it—er, him? Being a tactics piece and all.”

“Think of him as a good-luck charm, or something.” Her skin feels hot. Gods, _really,_ when did this happen? “And—well, he’s your ancestor.”

He laughs. “Well, I did inherit Falchion from him, so I’m not sure I need this. But if you’re sure… I would be honored.”

She grips Alm and Celica hard in her hand. “Just…don’t mention it.”

His laughter grows, and he pockets the tiny piece. “All right. You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

“I just did. I know it’s still early, but I was thinking of retiring for the night. I’m still exhausted.”

“Aren’t we all? …Ah.” He suddenly shifts his weight and looks down. “They’re holding a funeral at sundown. Palace workers are buried not too far from the castle. I’m going, of course… I wasn’t sure if you knew. Are you going?”

She pulls the drawstring of her bag closed slowly. “I…don’t know,” she says truthfully. It’s expected and respectful to attend funerals. And given her involvement, it would be facing her mistakes, maybe provide some sort of closure, so she really should go.

_But you’re responsible for Felicia’s death,_ a voice—much like her own—sounds in her head. _And for the deaths of those she was protecting. You would be defiling their memories by going._

“…Robin?”

She snaps out of her thoughts. “W-what?”

He hesitates. “I think you should go. It’s a shame to say, but…death doesn’t go away. And while I don’t know what the girl…Felicia…meant to you, you should pay your respects. But don’t worry. I’ll be there with you.”

“…All right,” she finds herself saying. “I’ll meet you in the dining hall before sundown.”

()()()

Luckily, her coat has dried by the time she leaves. The heavy sleeves make her feel secure, like she’s wearing a blanket. She puts the cowl over her head, unable to help herself. She knows that she’ll probably be stared at for wearing the Grimleal clothing, when the Grimleal were the assassins, but there’s no way she can go without wearing it, as childish as it seems.

Chrom is waiting for her in the dining hall, as promised. He’s changed into a dark blue outfit, much more somber, with a white Brand of Naga emblazoned on the right shoulder. A silver cape drapes down his back. Robin’s only thought, bizarre as it is, is that him wearing two sleeves is so _odd_.

He quietly explains what happens at a Ylissean funeral. She goes mute, only able to nod. Soon enough, multitudes of people start to walk through the hallways, and Chrom leads her along, following. The Shepherds—minus Lissa and Maribelle, who must still be tending to Phila and Mark—join in once they come outside, and they all walk together. Every single warrior is quiet.

The castle of Ylisstol rests high on a hill. On three sides, the gentle slope allows for the city to sit comfortably. On the far side, the hill is steep, except for one walled plateau connected to the city only by stairs. The procession follows this path, all the way down to the cemetery, where a number of rectangular holes have been dug.

Robin has been to Plegian funerals. Typically, even for non-Grimleal ceremonies, the body is cremated so the soul can be freed. Non-Grimleals like to say that the soul goes wherever it pleases, rather than to the jaws of Grima. The ground in Plegia is either sand, hard-packed earth, or bits of farmland—there is no room for burial. The poor scatter the ashes, while those with money keep the ashes in extravagant jars to leave at cemeteries; the royal family supposedly has a crypt in the bones of the capital.

She stands beside Chrom and waits for everyone to finish filing into the area. Several minutes later, another procession comes down the stairs, headed by Emmeryn. The setting sun lights her green robes ablaze, and her hair almost looks like liquid gold. Robin wonders just how tired she is.

Emmeryn stops in the middle of the area, while those men and women behind her end in lines. They carry long, wooden boxes— _coffins_ , Chrom said they were called. She knows the words from a book or two, but she’s never seen them.

“I humbly thank you all for coming,” Emmeryn says. Her voice is even, calm, and strong. “We are gathered here tonight in mourning, to honor those lives lost in yesterday’s attack. These poor, brave souls were taken from us too soon, and have gone to return to Naga’s side. Though one day we shall meet them again, until then, we shall miss them terribly.”

She says the name of the first victim. One of the coffins is lifted and carried to one of the holes, and carefully lowered in. While this is done, Emmeryn speaks of the family members left behind by the young man, and his age, and his station.

She does this again, for the next person. And the next. She doesn’t look at any sort of notecards, nor does anyone whisper words to her. There are almost two dozen coffins.

Robin almost doesn’t hear when she calls Felicia’s name.

“Twin sister of Flora, now passed. Nineteen years old. A maid, skilled in combat and healing. She died helping to protect one of our own.”

Robin watches with wide eyes as the closed coffin is lowered into the ground. Chrom grasps her wrist, and she realizes she’s shaking.

Emmeryn says three more names, and then all the coffins are put into the ground.

“Please, my siblings, let us bow our heads.”

Robin lowers her head, her cowl hiding her view of everyone else. She stares at her feet, at her gloved hands.

“We ask you, Naga, to be kind to these souls who fought to protect us. Take them into your welcoming arms, and guide their souls safely to the next life. For you are kindness, wisdom, and protection. In Naga’s name.”

_“In Naga’s name_ ,” the crowd murmurs, and Robin looks up to see that those gathered have started to move, as if slowly trying to shed off the gloom. The men and women who carried the coffins take up shovels and begin to bury the fallen. A few of those from the crowd—friends, or family perhaps—move to some of the holes to say last words.

Robin slips out of Chrom’s grip. She turns to the stairs and runs up.

()()()

There’s knocking at her door as she gathers her meager belongings together on her desk. “Robin? Are you okay?”

Her hands are shaking. She wanted to wait until first light. Her mind is jumping from thought to thought and her body seems to be moving on its own.

“Robin? Please, answer me.”

It’s then that she realizes that someone’s at her door. That it’s Chrom. “It’s locked,” she calls, gripping the edge of her desk as if it will keep her together.

“May I come in? I just—I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“I-I want to be alone.” The shaking is worse. Her vision is flashing red.

“…I’m sorry, Robin. But I really just need to—”

There isn’t anything rational in her reason to shove the desk over. It crashes to the floor, sending loose papers, her stolen food, her coins, and her bag of tiny tactics pieces clattering to the floor. Only the food spills out, and it lands right next to the broken inkwell. The bread soaks up the black, and Robin hurries to grab first her heroes and then her coin purse out of the way.

“Robin?! Robin!”

Chrom calls for help, and there are loud bangs on the door. Robin sinks to her knees on the marble floor, wishing it were dirt or sand.

The door slams open, and Chrom nearly falls onto the floor because of his momentum. He hurries in, followed by two guards; they stand at attention while he kneels beside her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Were you attacked?”

She shakes her head.

His brows furrow, and his eyes fall on the ruined food on the floor. He turns to the guards. “Search the room for any intruders.”

“Yes, sir,” the men say in unison, before they go about checking the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, even the curtains. When they find no one, Chrom nods as if affirming something to himself.

“Leave. Close the door. Stand guard in the hallway.”

The guards share a look, but do as he says. The door doesn’t close properly because of the damage done to open it, but it’s good enough to block out the sound of their footsteps.

Chrom is silent, as if waiting for Robin to speak. She simply stares at her hands in her lap.

“Do you blame yourself?” he asks quietly.

She nods.

“…This is war, against _Grima._ ” He pauses. “It doesn’t feel real, sometimes. The Fell Dragon of legend, come again in the body of a woman, and she only is here before the true avatar. If everything Mark has said is true. So…deaths are bound to happen. We have to—”

“It’s my fault, Chrom.”

He shakes his head. “It’s Lucina’s, for attacking us. I… I understand, that Felicia…died for you, but please…”

“No.” She grabs onto her hood and lowers it further down over her face. “You don’t understand.”

She can feel his fingers tense against her shoulder. “…Then tell me.” He’s barely keeping his patience together. His voice is almost a growl. “You were running away. When we need you as our tactician. When Emm was just _attacked_. Why?”

“It’s safer this way.” The words tumble out of her mouth without thought, just like when she had arguments with her mother. “I don’t mean you harm, gods, that’s the last thing I want—but it will happen. I just know it.”

“Look at me, Robin.” He shakes her shoulder. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t want to, but he won’t stop. So she looks up, the cowl just barely allowing her to meet his gaze.

“If this is about your tactics—you have the brightest mind anyone here has ever seen. Even Miriel says you’re great at what you do.” His brows knit together. Even with such caring words, he’s tense, barely keeping himself from arguing with her, she knows. “And—you’re kind. You don’t treat the Shepherds like they’re just chess pieces, you treat them like they’re people. I cannot begin to say how much I respect that about you.”

“It’s not just that,” she blurts. She’s so far gone that she doesn’t care anymore. “I didn’t want to admit it, but I’ve put it all together. All I need is for Mark to confirm it, but for all I know, he’s on his _deathbed_.”

“Well then,” he says, almost snapping. “What is it?”

She grabs her right glove and nearly rips it off her hand. She all but shoves the Mark of Grima in his face.

“I’ve had this my whole life,” she says, hard, and it’s all she can do not to shout when she’s this angry, this upset. “And my mother never outright said, but always suggested my father put it there. And that sorcerer last night _knew_ me, _knew_ that I had this Mark of Grima. He said he wanted to _collect_ me, after I became stronger.

“This is the same mark Lucina bears. Mark said that she is the child of Grima’s avatar, the one that will house his soul.” She’s shaking. “Don’t you see? My mother was trying to protect me from that man, because I’m Grima’s avatar. Lucina inherited that mark from me.”

The words are strong and heavy, fed by her hatred and loathing of them. She puts her hand back down in her lap, and she doesn’t miss how Chrom’s eyes follow the action. “I was leaving so that I could hide again. I don’t—I don’t want to kill myself, to solve this problem. I’m too much of a coward for that. Though I don’t have full confirmation on this… I can’t stay here. I can’t put you all at risk—”

Chrom puts his right hand over her bare one, over the Mark of Grima. Startled, she looks up at him again, and she can’t believe the intensity in his eyes.

“The safest place for you is _here_ ,” he says, quiet but firm. “If you really are this…avatar, maybe we can stop what happens to you. Mark said Grima was coming from the future, but…maybe it needs you. And then we can trap it, and you can just…be safe.” He shakes his head. “I lead. I don’t come up with plans. But the point is, you need to _stay_.”

She shakes her head. “If I’m not here, Lucina and that sorcerer may not come after you and Emmeryn.”

“And they’ll come after you, all alone.” His grip tightens around her hand. “And what you want to avoid will just happen because you ran off.”

It’s a valid point, and one that’s come to her mind, but it still angers her to hear it. “I’m trying to protect everyone. There’s no telling if one day I’ll just—if I’ll just end up _possessed_ like Lucina! Or if I’m influenced somehow, and my tactics fall short again, or if I sabotage something. I couldn’t bear it if I hurt anyone else.” Her voice breaks at that last sentence.

“Robin. You’re being an idiot.”

She turns away. “I shouldn’t have told you anything. I don’t—I don’t even know for sure if I’m correct.”

He pulls on her hand. “Tell me you aren’t leaving.”

She yanks her hand away from him and puts her glove back on. “…I’m sorry. For upsetting you, for doing this right after your sister was attacked. But I can’t expect your forgiveness.”

“Robin—!”

She grabs his wrist and meets his eyes.

She puts her other hand on her tome.

“ _Elthunder,_ ” she whispers.

The electricity travels from her fingertips into Chrom’s skin. His body convulses, and though she knows the power should render his muscles useless, she swears that his face flashes with betrayal. He collapses onto the floor a moment later, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

_I really am just an idiot like he said._

She gathers her belongings, abandoning the ruined food. When she’s ready, she rips open the door. The guards from before are the only ones in the hall, and she calls out to them.

“Help! He’s collapsed—I don’t know what’s wrong!”

They both hurry past her into the room and toward their lord. She lifts her hand while their backs are turned and whispers the spell again, and the electricity that shoots from her fingers causes them to fall unconscious to the floor.

She closes the door, thankful that Chrom gave her such a quiet, unused area for her quarters. But it’s only a matter of time before a servant will come along, or before one of them wakes up. So, she leaves, careful to keep her steps from being too hurried.

Her hand brushes over her bag of playing pieces. _Mother… I hope you can forgive me. I’m coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end of the first act! (Out of how many, who knows.) Yes, Robin is supposed to be acting very irrationally here, but I can't blame her. After all, I wrote all the terrible things that've happened to her. (Although, I didn't plan for her to attack Chrom to get away. That just...happened.)
> 
> I will be taking a break in order to finalize the plot for the rest of the story. I hope I can flatten out all of the details. But from here, things will really be different from Awakening's canon storyline, and I'll also be including a lot of my own headcanons. So look forward to that!
> 
> I have also decided that the Grima lore in Shadows of Valentia will be used as canon for this fic, but don't worry, that chapter is a long, long, long way off.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll try not to be gone for too long this time. (*knock on wood*)


	16. xvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina awakens and comes up with plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but this chapter is more introductory for Act Two. 
> 
> ....I still haven't finished with the outline for Act Two. A ton of personal problems hit me this summer, and I'll be heading back to school soon. Damn it, summer, I was going to be more productive....

_second_

Lucina remembered where the rendezvous point was—northeast of the Plegian capital, south of the Border Pass where a small, natural spurt of land jutted into the ocean inlet, creating a natural harbor hidden from the west. Ylisse had boats for fishing and small-scale travel, nothing rivaling Plegia’s once-great fleet that had been made with the defeat of Walhart in mind; but a few larger boats had been commissioned by Chrom and Robin to spirit away survivors in case the mission failed and challenging Grima directly again wasn’t an option.

The boats would take them miles and miles south through the inlet, keeping close to the Ylissean shore and making stops only when necessary; the inlet saw heavy traffic from refugees and traders, and being discovered by any Grimleal before they were able to reach the Outrealm Gate wouldn’t be favorable for the fleeing Shepherds, to say the least.

Lucina rode atop a wyvern, grimacing at how the beast’s wings beat loudly at the air and gave her a ride far bumpier than one could find on a pegasus—or, perhaps, she just wasn’t used to being on the back of a scaly, glorified lizard, and she was riding it wrong. Not that she would admit it. She hated the animal, but it flew faster than she could run, and she couldn’t be sure of how much of a head start the surviving Shepherds had been given. She needed to make up for lost time.

The skies were growing darker with clouds, heavy with curses. Though Grima’s power hadn’t manifested fully, thanks to the Shepherds having ruined the plan for harvesting all of Plegia’s souls, her mother had enough magic to begin the process of turning the world perfect. However, the farther she flew from the capital, the clearer the skies became, although there were still large patches of dark clouds blocking the moonlight.

Lucina rode the wyvern well into the night. Although the end of the current world was nigh, the villages she few over kept lanterns and fires lit, as if trying to brace the coming storm. It was almost incomprehensible to her why they wouldn’t just give up and submit, but then again, her past self had gone years and years without yielding, only to snap apart like a rusted sword. She wondered when humanity would reach that point.

Finally, she alighted a few miles westward of the rendezvous point and dropped onto the ground. Without remorse, she sliced through the wyvern’s neck. Its screech was drowned out by blood, and the hot liquid spat out onto her chest. It flapped its wings, trying to lift off, but she hacked through its neck with another swing, decapitating the beast. The body collapsed onto the forest floor in a heap, twitching for a moment before stilling. Lucina flicked the blood off her blade before sheathing it and moving westward.

She held a single-minded goal, of course: Grima’s ascension to power. Nothing would take priority over that. However, second in her goals was the resurrection of her father, and third was the demise of all those who dared to stand in her way.

 _I hope he likes it,_ she found herself thinking. _The world Mother and I will create._

She walked on.

The grey light of dawn made everything seem strangely flat. Thus, recognizing the others once she stepped into the small clearing took a moment. Laurent stood by a campfire lit by magic, waving a hand to snuff it out. Cynthia and Gerome were feeding their mounts with what small amount of food they had. Kjelle, standing guard, saw her first.

“Lucina?” she said, incredulous.

Cynthia whipped around. “Lucina?!”

Others echoed the name, appearing out of the trees. All were the second generation of Shepherds—not a single one of their parents stood among them.

Morgan and Inigo appeared at the far end of the clearing, their eyes the widest of all. Morgan’s mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped the sword in his hand—Falchion. Though she had once wielded the holy blade, the sight set her blood blazing, something deep and instinctual telling her to destroy the weapon even though it was unbreakable.

Unknowing of her thoughts, wonderment spread across Inigo’s face, his smile wide and his eyes sparkling. It was a sickening sight.

“Lucina!” he called, breaking into a run toward her. He was laughing, waving. “I knew you had to be alive!”

Lucina smiled.

Minerva growled, and Gerome grabbed his axe. “Stop! She’s—!”

In the blink of an eye, Lucina unsheathed Erebus and pierced Inigo’s stomach.

He gasped, a dark line falling from his mouth down his chin. The dawn light was strengthening, tinging his white hair pink. His hands shook as he grabbed at the sword embedded in his gut.

“Lucina.” He stared at her, at the tattoos that had started to glow on her face once she had unsheathed Erebus. His right hand lifted to her cheek, drenching it with blood.

He smiled weakly. “My life always…was yours, wasn’t it?”

* * *

 

The pain in her body is hot and disorienting, like being branded by coals and then dunked underwater. Her body thrashes as the dark healing magic flows through her veins, but she can barely move. She’s stuck for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, she jolts awake, her eyes flashing open. Around her bed stand several priests, sweat beading on their foreheads and dark staves held tightly. A familiar head of white hair is just beyond them, his face tilted to peer curiously.

“Ini—?” She coughs, her throat dry, like it’s caked with sand. A priest lifts a cup of water to her lips—she’s already propped up slightly, the head of the bed lifted at an angle—and she drinks eagerly. Her stomach churns in protest at the sudden influx, but she ignores the feeling and downs the whole cup.

“Careful there, Luci, you don’t want to make yourself sick,” Henry says, singing, and she can feel her thoughts resettle like a river falling into an old course. Inigo is dead, and in this timeline, he very well may never live in the first place.

For just a moment, she remembers the blood, remembers his words—unknowingly so, so much like the second Robin’s—and she feels a pang in her chest. Immediately, anger and frustration flush through her, igniting her blood. Such emotion is human, lesser; it belongs to the previous Lucina, and not Grima’s messenger. She shouldn’t be feeling such things in the first place.

Lucina pushes those thoughts aside and tries to sit up, but she shudders, her body aching. “Where are we?” she snaps.

“Back at the Main Cathedral, milady,” one of the priests says. His skin is pale. “The Hierophant brought you back here ahead of the main force at great cost to his health; he is resting now. Survivors are still arriving and awaiting punishment for failure.”

She scowls and stands, ignoring the shock from those around her. Nothing will keep her down.

She sees Erebus in its scabbard on the bedside table and snatches it up. “Where is he—Validar?”

“In his chambers, milady,” the priest stammers, and though he starts to say more, she ignores him and stomps out of the room, Henry following at her heels.

There are guards at the entrance to Validar’s private chambers. They cower at the sight of her, wordlessly stepping aside. She pushes open the door and marches into the sitting room. “Validar!”

“M-milady?” comes a voice from another room, and a few moments later, Validar hurries into the room on shaking legs. He’s in a plain purple robe; it appears he just got up out of bed. His eyes are wide. “What is the matter?”

“You failed me,” she hisses. She grabs the hilt of her sword and unsheathes it, and her tattoos flare to life. “You’re useless! You died to your own child, twice! I can’t believe Robin wasted her life to kill you,” she spits, uncaring that he doesn’t know what happened in the future-pasts. “Your forces weren’t enough for a simple assassination!”

He falls to his knees, holding his hands clasped in front of him in supplication. “Milady, please—I did all that I-I could to see you returned so that your wounds could be treated.” His voice is rough but airy, like he doesn’t even have enough strength to fill his lungs completely while speaking. “I, too, am unpleased with those in my service… But after…”

He trails off, like he knows what he was about to say would truly have ended with him beheaded. And she knows, too, what it is he meant: _After you fell._ After _her_ failure. After _her_ attempt at taking Emmeryn’s life and the Fire Emblem, only to meet defeat at the hands of her brother.

A growl rises in Lucina’s throat, and all at once, it turns into a scream; she turns and slices through a plush couch, the tip of Erebus bouncing off the marble floor before she goes at it again and again. She imagines it’s Morgan she’s tearing into, ripping apart his chest, severing his limbs, killing him.

And then, an idea hits her.

She pauses so quickly that Validar and Henry are left staring at her. She lowers her sword and whips around toward them.

“While there’s nothing more I’d like to do then go back out to Ylisstol and destroy those dastards,” she says, “I think it could be in our best interest if they were to think me dead.”

“Playing possum?” Henry says, bouncing back quickly while Validar just stares at her.

“Exactly.”

She strides past them to a large stone table, where a detailed map of the continent is spread out. Small pieces representing the known locations of all the armies are dotted here and there; most of Ylisse’s and Ferox’s forces are at Plegia’s eastern border, as its northern border is guarded by Ferox’s Longfort.

She draws an oval with her finger over Plegia, muttering to herself. She studies the map, her eyes darting here and there. She draws the oval again, but this time larger, over the whole of the continent.

“Henry,” she calls, turning to him. “How would you like to gather up a small travelling force? We would leave at the next nightfall.”

He chuckles and bows with a flourish. “Sounds fun! Where are we going?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” she answers, smirking. “Go make the preparations for a long journey. I will remain here and go over plans with Validar.”

Henry salutes and leaves, almost skipping. Lucina turns back to Validar to find that he is still on his knees, and she scowls. “Stand up already. We have things to discuss.”

He stands slowly, shaking slightly. However he managed to bring her here so quickly—warp spells, she assumes—it’s exhausted him. Her lip curls, and she thinks about killing him like she did that wyvern. Surely it would relieve her frustration, but her sense rules that out; replacing him would cause more headaches than she’s willing to put up with.

“I hope you recover quickly, Validar,” she warns. “You’ll need your strength.”

She pauses, turning back to the map, and now that her anger is ebbing into determination, the lingering pain in her abdomen stings her. She narrows her eyes. “As will I.”


	17. xvii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan begins to recover, and Ylisse deliberates on its next course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter came from my first draft of this fic years ago, so maybe long-time readers will recognize the scene.
> 
> I'm debating having the next chapter pick up right where this one leaves off, but I know you guys really want to see Robin... We'll see what happens.
> 
> On another note, another update may not happen for awhile. Chrobin Week is soon, and school is hell. But I hope to get another chapter out maybe around the end of October...? (I shouldn't make promises.)

_second_

“Mother?”

Morgan stood for a moment outside his parents’ tent. In one hand, he held a bowl of Stahl’s famed stew, and in the other, a small, tied-up kerchief filled with his secret stash of sweets, which so far he’d managed to keep safe from Gaius. “Can I come in?”

No one answered. Morgan waited another minute, softly calling for his mother. When still no response came, he went inside.

The tent was rather large. A bedroll lay in the middle, and maps hung from the walls, especially around the area where Robin’s desk sat. A detailed layout of Plegia sat on its surface, carved wooden playing pieces scattered about on it standing in for real armies. But other than the tiny little heroes, no one was there.

Morgan placed the food carefully on an empty part of the desk. He picked up one of the playing pieces, smiling as he read the name _IKE_ on the base. His mother had been using that particular hero to represent the movements of one of the Ferox battalions. He had grown used to using her playing pieces, but they had always been familiar to him, a key to his past that was stuck behind the wall in his head or lost in the hole of space-time.

A ruffling noise caught his attention, and he hurriedly put the piece back in place, turning around and hiding his hands behind his back in time to see his father come into the tent. Chrom’s face was pale, and a bit of stubble was forming on his chin. The Fire Emblem was conspicuously absent from his arm.

The Exalt stopped short when he saw his son. “Morgan?”

Morgan tried to smile, but nothing came to his lips. Instead, his eyebrows furrowed. “Do you know where Mother is?”

“I was just looking for her,” Chrom admitted. A smile came to his face, but it didn’t make Morgan’s heart any less heavy. Still, he appreciated the gesture. “Let’s go look together, shall we?”

Morgan nodded, and together they left the tent. Chrom put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, and though the young tactician’s concerns didn’t abate, the contact comforted him more than he could put into words.

“If I know your mother,” Chrom said, his voice a quiet rumble, “something like this would either have shut her up in her study, or taken her out of camp where no one would find her. Well, no one except us,” he added with a wink, finally seeming to step into some semblance of humor.

Together, the two left the encampment. A few Shepherds glanced their way, but no one stopped them. They headed out into the hills, in the opposite direction of the nearby river. Just short of a rise, Chrom stopped short, and his grip on Morgan’s arm tightened. Frowning, Morgan looked back up at his father.

Voices were wafting toward them on the breeze.

“…I have no choice, Mother. I must kill you.”

Morgan’s insides turned to ice. He whipped around, intending to rush up the hill, but his father held him back, covering his mouth.

“Shh, shh,” Chrom whispered, but his voice was rough and stern. “Just listen for a minute. I promise, I won’t let anything happen.”

His mother said something, but Morgan couldn’t hear. He struggled in vain against his father, then forced himself to stop, trying to listen.

“In my future, you…” Lucina paused. “You kill Father.”

Morgan could feel his father’s arms tense.

“That’s insane, Lucina!” Robin protested. “Why would I kill Chrom?”

“…I wasn’t sure of it myself,” Lucina said slowly. “I knew he had been killed by his closest friend. I doubted it could be so, that it was you, but…today’s events make it clear.” Her voice became louder, stronger. “You are at Validar’s mercy. I suspect it’s he who forces you to take Father’s life, and very soon…”

Morgan tried to shake his head. Tears were forming in his eyes. “Why,” he wanted to say to his father, to his sister, to his mother, but he couldn’t speak around Chrom’s hand.

“I told you, Morgan, I won’t let anything happen,” Chrom hissed. “Even if something _does_.”

“If Father is right, then we can change our fates,” Lucina continued. “If this dark future is to be averted, sacrifices must be made.” Suddenly, her voice broke, interrupted with sobs. “I-I am sorry, Mother! I know this is matricide, I…know…”

“Lucina,” Robin said. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t make it harder!” Lucina pleaded, shouting. Another soft cry fell from her lips. “It…will be swift and painless. If you hold any love for Father, then please, let this be done…”

There was silence.

And then finally, Robin spoke, and Morgan could hear the smile in her voice. “My life is yours. It always has been.”

Morgan let out a muffled cry, but he could still hear Lucina’s choking sob.

“D-don’t say that, Mother! Please don’t! That only makes it harder…”

“I would give my life for Chrom. And for you, and for Morgan, and for Luci as well. For all of you.”

“Mother, please…”

“I know you’ll be quick about it,” Robin said. “I love you, Lucina. I’m ready, so do what you must.”

“I…”

“Damn it,” Chrom hissed, letting go of Morgan and rushing up over the rise. Morgan followed right at his heels, the fear running through his veins urging him on.

“ _Damn me_!”

Lucina screamed in frustration, and Morgan saw his sister throw herself onto her knees, Falchion forgotten on the ground beside her. The tears on her anguished face reflected the setting sun, and the sight stopped his feet. “I can’t do it! I love you too much, Mother!”

Robin, her eyes wet, watched her.

“I’m so sorry, Mother!” Lucina bawled, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry! P-please forgive me!”

“My poor girl. There’s nothing to forgive,” Robin murmured, kneeling down to sit next to her daughter.

“Mother!” Morgan launched himself toward them, collapsing on the ground beside them. He threw his arms around his mother and buried his face in her shoulder. She immediately returned the embrace and allowed him to cry.

“M-Morgan?” Lucina stuttered. Her voice was thick with tears, but Morgan didn’t move to look at her. He only tightened his grip around their mother.

“Are you done, Lucina?” Chrom asked, coming up to them.

“F-Father!” Lucina gasped. “I-I can explain!”

“No need,” Chrom said. “We heard every word.”

“Then—then why didn’t you try to stop me?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

Slowly, Morgan pulled away from his mother so he could turn to look at his father and sister. Chrom knelt and put his hand on Lucina’s head.

“I know your heart is in the right place,” he said slowly. “But I trust your mother. You cannot shake my faith in her. We’ve held fast through good times and ill. We swore to be two halves of the same whole. You underestimate the strength of those ties, the bonds we share. I believe in them more than some foretold ‘destiny.’”

Robin’s grip on Morgan became tight, and he patted her hand to soothe her.

Tears steadily dripped from Lucina’s eyes. “That…is easier to say when you haven’t seen it yourself.”

Morgan hesitated. “Sister…?”

Lucina flinched, but turned to him all the same. “Y-yes?”

The young tactician sniffed, but forced his voice to be as strong as he could manage. “Aren’t our ties stronger here now than they were in the future? I-I know I don’t remember it all, but…”

“Morgan’s right,” Chrom agreed. “You said so yourself, Lucina. In this flow of time we are bound tighter than ever, you and I, and your mother and brother. I see all of you as not just my family, but my friends. We can change things. We already have, and we will again.

The princess was silent for a moment. Then, she wiped away some of the wetness on her cheeks. “…All right, Father.” She turned to Robin, and her faced was pale, reminding Morgan of a small child. “Mother, please—I hope someday you find it in your heart to forgive me…”

“Oh, Lucina,” Robin murmured, reaching out and cupping her face. “There’s nothing for me to forgive you for. Like I said, I would die for any of you.”

More tears leaked from Lucina’s eyes. “I pray… That is, I trust you all will prove me wrong. That the future will crack and fall apart before our family bond ever does.”

Morgan finally moved away from his mother. He gently took Lucina by the shoulders and pulled her into an embrace. She gasped, and her voice wavered.

“M-Morgan?”

“It’s okay, Lucina,” he said, no longer able to speak in anything above a whisper. “Everything will be all right this time around.”

“But don’t you—?” Lucina started to sob again. “Don’t you hate me? For t-trying to…?”

“I’m sad, and I’m hurt,” Morgan admitted. He took a breath, and it felt like he was being crushed. “But I understand…and I forgive you. I could never hate you.”

“Morgan…”

Lucina returned the embrace and held onto her brother like he was her last link to life.

* * *

 

When Morgan next wakes, Lissa is tending to him. She’s in the middle of changing his bandages, and despite how careful she’s being, the motion jostles him. He groans and looks down. A surge of dizziness and nausea overtakes him for the moment when he sees the blood seeping from the wound across his chest. It’s clean and closing, but the skin around it is an angry red.

“You’re getting better!” Lissa says cheerily as she rubs an ointment onto his wound. Her fingers become smeared with blood, but she doesn’t seem to mind, though she wipes it off with a wet cloth before she grabs her staff. A cooling sensation washes over him, and he swears he can feel his wound close a centimeter, but it doesn’t heal completely. Lissa wraps fresh bandages around him, and he leans up as much as he can to help her get the cloth around his body. As soon as she’s done, he collapses back down.

“Be careful,” she warns. “The rate you’re going, you should be up and about by yourself in a few days, but that wound is taking a lot out of you.”

“How long?” he says, his voice cracking. He coughs. “Have I been here, I mean.”

“You’ve been in bed a bit over two days, now.” She bites her lip and looks away for a moment. “…Unfortunately, you’re not ready to leave yet.”

He frowns. He wants to ask about what he’s missed in the past two days, other than what Emmeryn filled him in on, but at the moment there’s a far more pressing matter at hand. He feels his cheeks heat—he’s incredibly grateful for the mask—and forces the words out of his mouth: “…I need to um, go to…”

“Oh. Okay.” She shrugs and steps back, unconcerned. “Do you need help getting up?”

He can’t tell if she’s being nice or professional. A sudden, vivid memory of Aunt Lissa running after a naked, toddler-version of Owain pops up in his mind; it ended with her making a multitude of faces at the fact that Owain had run off from having his diaper changed. He laughs just a little, finding the fact that he remembered such a small, ridiculous scene of all his unrecovered memories, but his ribs still hurt. Lissa gives him an odd look.

Nevertheless, she helps Morgan to sit up and move his legs over the edge of the bed. His body is stiff and slow-moving, and he winces as he gets up. But he’s capable of standing, and he takes a few wobbly steps around, testing himself.

He moves toward where a small privacy screen has been set up to keep between the beds and the chamber pot, although it’s not long enough to prevent being seen from the doorway. He pauses and glances at Lissa, unable to meet her eyes, and she has the decency to hide her giggle behind her hand.

“I see you’re okay to do at least this much,” she says. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” She ducks out the door and closes it behind her.

Even without anyone watching him, the unconscious Phila is still in the room, and his cheeks burn as he relieves himself. At least he’s able to go to the bathroom without help, he muses. He’d curl up in shame if he couldn’t.

As he’s standing there, he hears voices coming from the hall—the loudest is unmistakably his father’s. A burst of relief courses through him, knowing that Chrom is all right after the battle. He’s looking forward to—

“Lissa, let me through, I need to talk with—”

Chrom stops in the doorway, frozen, staring as Morgan stares back. Lissa barges in after Chrom and grabs him by the shirt before dragging him back into the hall. “Sorry!” she calls to Morgan, keeping her eyes low as she leans back in to snatch the door handle. “Take your time. Don’t mind the dunderhead.”

She closes the door and Morgan is left standing there, pants around his thighs.

After he straightens himself up, Morgan realizes that he’s hot all over. The scare mixed with the embarrassment has exhausted him, sapping his strength. It’s not like he isn’t used to being seen, what with how rare privacy is in the army’s bathing tent, but it’s hard to shake the full range of emotions he’s had in the past five minutes of being awake. A large part of him wants to yell at his father for invading his personal space, like he’s a child again.

Lissa reenters a moment later with a red-faced Chrom in tow. The crown prince shuffles in, scratching the back of his neck, and says, “I…must apologize. I did not mean to intrude.”

“Jeez, Chrom,” Lissa says. She comes closer to Morgan and leans down to inspect the bandages on his chest. A few bright red splotches have appeared. “His wound isn’t healing properly. Look what you made him do!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Maybe you should be more considerate! I tried to tell you he was using—!”

“Okay!” Morgan yells. Their gazes train on him, and he huffs. “Can we just…stop talking about this?”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Chrom says at once, and he glares at Lissa until she rolls he eyes and adds, “Neither will I.”

She grabs her staff and feeds a bit more magic into Morgan’s body, but he can see how she winces.

“Lissa,” he says tentatively. “Do you need to rest?”

“Nonsense!” She shakes her head. “I’ll be relieved by Maribelle in another half-hour. I’m fine.” She makes an impressive feat of keeping her lips closed as she yawns, covering her mouth with her fingers. “Plus, another healer from the local church came. Libra, I think.”

Chrom shifts. “…Actually, Lissa, would you mind stepping out for a while?”

All at once, Lissa’s fatigue falls away, her eyes sharpening as she looks at Chrom. She shakes her head, pigtails swaying. “He just woke up,” she hisses, like Morgan isn’t there.

“Lissa,” Chrom snaps, his jaw tightening. “Please.”

Morgan sits up straighter, watching them closely. Despite the warmth of the room, a chill crawls over his skin. He doesn’t want to ask, but he forces the words out of his mouth: “What happened?”

Lissa stands, but seems lost. Chrom stares her down until, finally, she relents with a huff. “I’m not going farther than the door, in case his injuries open,” she says, her words hard but her actions a bit dazed, like she doesn’t know what to do. She leaves the room just as she said, closing the door behind her.

Chrom is silent, shifting his weight. He makes a step as if to go sit down in the chair, but then thinks better of it and stands. Then he changes his mind again and actually takes a seat.

Morgan’s voice wavers. “…What happened?”

Chrom laces his fingers together, and then finally says, “Robin left us.” Pain flashes in his eyes, and it doesn’t go away despite the hard set of his frown. “I’ve sent out search parties, but we don’t have many hands to spare, and we don’t know where—”

Morgan feels as if the bed has been pulled from beneath him, so fast as to leave him spinning. “Left?” he echoes, staring but barely seeing.

“…She was trying to step down from her position as tactician and leave the Shepherds,” Chrom says, but the words barely register in Morgan’s mind. “I…tried to get her to stay, but she was adamant, hysterical even—and she overpowered me and the guards. She left in the middle of the night, and we can’t find any traces of which direction she went in.”

Morgan’s hands shake. The dizziness in his head starts to make him ache all over. His parents dying. That’s a possibility he thought about and knew the risks of before coming back to the past, though he’s trying to prevent it with all his might. But his mother—with her memories intact—leaving the Shepherds and running off is something he couldn’t have predicted, couldn’t have even imagined happening.

“Mark?” Chrom says, and Morgan blinks, trying to focus. “Are you all right?”

He realizes he’s been holding his head in his hands. He looks up at Chrom. “What?”

“Are you all right?” Chrom repeats.

And then, something inside Morgan snaps.

“How could you let her go?!” he roars, throwing his hands down onto the bed. His fingers grab onto the sheets, bunching them into his fists. “Don’t you know what will happen to her out there?!”

Chrom’s eyes widen. Then, they narrow, and his nostrils flare. His voice is strained. “She attacked me and then left, and she’s covering her tracks pretty damn well. There was nothing I could do, Mark. You’ve got to believe me about that.”

The name jars Morgan. He stops, staring slack-jawed at his father—the third one he’s known, but the only one who doesn’t know _him_.

Tears sting in Morgan’s eyes, and he grits his teeth, turning away. His tome and jacket lay on the bedside table, while his Falchion leans against the wall. He stands, ignoring the swaying of the room around him, and grabs his cloak.

“Mark?” Chrom stares at him. “Where are you going?”

He puts his arms through the sleeves, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest, and picks up his weapons. “To find—her.” He almost says _mother_. He shakes his head and turns toward the door, but Chrom stands up, stopping him.

“Do you know where she went?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, trying to move past, but Chrom reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder.

“You need to calm down,” his father says. “You’re still recovering, and—”

“ _Let go of me_!”

Morgan wrenches himself out of his father’s grip. Chrom pulls his hand back, but it hangs in the air, his fingers outstretched.

An almost overwhelming urge to apologize and fall into his father’s arms washes down on him. He turns away, tears slipping down his cheeks, but he ends up staring at Phila’s unconscious form. The sight makes him think about his parents’ deaths, and then, sobs tear from his throat.

“L-leave me alone,” he begs, cursing his trembling voice. He wants to wipe at his eyes, but his mask is on his face, and his hands are full, one with his tome and the other with Falchion.

Chrom is silent for a long moment. Morgan breathes, trying to keep himself calm, but sobbing hiccups still leave him.

“Mark,” Chrom starts, but before he can continue, the door opens.

At the same time, Phila’s lips part.

Instantly, Morgan’s cries cease, and he stares at Phila, heedless of the conversation happening behind him. Her lids move, lashes fluttering slightly against her cheeks, her eyes not even opening.

 _A nightmare?_ Without thinking, he puts his weapons aside on the nightstand and reaches out, fingertips grazing her arm.

She gasps, a sound like a coarse wind against dry rock. And the room goes quiet.

“Phila!”

Emmeryn—he didn’t realize she came into the room—hurries past him and kneels beside her bodyguard, holding her hand. Lissa comes up as well, her mouth hanging open. Chrom is the only one who stays back, but his eyes are trained on the bodyguard.

Phila’s eyes flutter open. Her unfocused gaze flits about before settling on Emmeryn, and a breath leaves her, all fear and tension draining from her body. She opens her mouth—but all that comes out is a glottal sound, like she’s choking.

She coughs, and Lissa grabs water, putting it to Phila’s lips. “Slowly,” she warns, and the bodyguard follows the command, only taking sips.

“Phila,” Emmeryn starts, but then Phila opens up her mouth again.

Only a strangled sound emerges.

A beat passes.

“Phila, shh,” Emmeryn soothes, rubbing her thumb across the woman’s hand, and Morgan feels like he’s intruding, but his legs won’t move. “Your throat was badly damaged. We’ve done all we can, but the rest is up to you. You need to take it easy for now.”

Phila stares. Her brow furrows. All at once she looks away toward the wall, a redness coloring her pale cheeks.

Lissa turns around, waving her arms but keeping her voice quiet. “Come along, Mark; I think you’re well enough to be moved back to your own room.”

He only nods and gathers his meager belongings. It’s then that he remembers his missing mother, but instead of feeling his blood boil again, his limbs feel hang heavy and stiff, his feet weighted like stones.

()()()

“…All right,” Emmeryn begins quietly. She’s seated at the head of the table; her eyes droop, and her skin is pallid. “We are here to discuss where to move on from this point.”

At her right is Chrom; Frederick stands behind them. Morgan is on the other side of the table, utterly alone. Robin’s absence feels somehow palpable, as if her ghost were in the room. Morgan shudders at the thought.

“Things have become too…unpredictable,” Morgan says slowly. He’s thought long and hard about what he wants to say; the words filled his mind when he rested earlier in the day, when he ate, when he bathed. They never left. “So, I would advise against you fleeing Ylisstol, Your Grace.”

He knows that her running from and then returning to Ylisstol in the second timeline was the precursor to her capture and subsequent execution attempt. Perhaps staying in one place would mitigate any problems. At least, he hopes so.

“Surely Her Grace would be safer at the eastern palace?” Frederick argues, but at once, Emmeryn puts up her hand.

“I will not abandon my people in their time of need,” she says, her lips drawn tight.

Chrom crosses his arms. “…I don’t like this, Emm. The assassins that escaped will know our weak points now.”

“If we fortify defenses, they will be unlikely to try another attack,” Morgan argues. “They’ve failed once to assassinate Her Grace; logically, they’ll try another way. Though of course, we’ll make sure to increase our countermeasures not just for another form of assassination, such as poison, but also for another direct assault as well.”

Emmeryn nods. “We have already begun those preparations.” She turns back to Chrom, who’s still frowning. “I will not budge on my decision, Brother; I suggest you put in your own effort as well.”

“Of course I will,” Chrom says, and his childish tone reminds Morgan of the times when Lucina or Owain would tease him relentlessly.

His mother would come to his rescue, sometimes.

A deep pang pierces his chest, as if Lucina really did plunge her sword into his heart. _Where are you, Mother?_

 _Dead, of course,_ he tells himself, but he still can’t help but want _this_ world’s Robin to live, and to live as his mother, like her future-past selves did.

He shakes the useless thought away, but pain still lingers in his chest. “Now,” he says carefully. “Chrom may have his own mission, if we agree to it.”

Chrom lifts an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with performing the Awakening Rite?”

Morgan nods. “We will need that power to combat Grima, and Lucina as well if necessary—hopefully we can get rid of her before Grima truly arrives. And to achieve that end, we need to gather the five gemstones.”

“That’s a risky move,” Frederick notes, his brows knitted together. “Gangrel has been asking time and time again for the Fire Emblem. If it fell into his hands in the first place, it would be disaster; if he acquired it while it held more gemstones, it could be catastrophic.”

Morgan nods. “I understand your concern. But the Grimleal can resurrect Grima with or without the aid of the Fire Emblem; our only way to destroy Grima is to use it and Falchion together. There is no other way.”

Chrom sighs. It’s then that Morgan sees the bags under his eyes and the lackluster gleam in his irises. “There’s no choice in the matter. Retrieving the remaining gemstones is a top priority. Would you happen to know where they are?”

Morgan nods. “Gules is in Ferox. Sable, unfortunately, is somewhere in Plegia, most likely held by Gangrel or the Hierophant. Azure and Vert are…across the sea, in Valm.”

“We are not much of a sea-faring nation,” Emmeryn says quietly. “The best we have are fishing boats.”

“Fliers may have to do…somehow,” Morgan says, although the idea of sending a pegasus knight or wyvern rider across the sea doesn’t sit well in his stomach. “We may have to ask Ferox for help. Dispatch one or two boats, and send pegasus knights to search Valm. Not too many, however; to avoid arousing suspicion.” He pauses. “What is the status of Valm right now?”

Chrom frowns, clearly stumped. Frederick strokes his chin. “One or two small territories have been annexed by the country of Valm, I believe.”

“If the political climate is shaky, then I would like to take a little time to consider this,” Emmeryn says. “But regardless, it would be wise to prepare boats from Ferox. I will have a messenger sent.”

“Asking for the gemstone is definitely something we should do in person,” Chrom says, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m reluctant to leave though, with how things are.”

Morgan takes a breath. “…There’s an alternative to going to Ferox first. We could take out Plegia—that is, Gangrel, and the Grimleal—and take Sable before searching for the other gemstones.”

He holds his tongue, not daring to say more.

Emmeryn is looking straight at him, but her gaze is faraway. She has stiffened, her lips pressed together. It’s as if she’s watching something terrible happening before her eyes, but all that Morgan is doing is meeting her gaze.

“War,” she says at last, “is what you mean.”

He nods.

Emmeryn stands, her fingertips pressing against the table. All at once she is made of hard angles and pale colors, exuding a force that Morgan never thought he would feel from her.

“Defending the border is one matter,” she says, each word sharp. “And preparing to fight Grima—and accepting the actuality that we will—lies in that same vein. But despite Gangrel’s cruelty and despite the Grimleal’s twisted ways, Plegians are our neighbors. My citizens are my neighbors. They are my responsibility, and we’ve just barely managed to recover from losing so many from my father’s war. I will not drag them into another one.”

Morgan’s nails dig into the skin of his palms. “I understand. But what do you expect to do? The battlefield may be a senseless place, killing one another may be a vile and despicable act—but war has its purpose. War is necessary right now.”

“Necessary,” Emmeryn says quietly, unbelievingly.

Morgan stands. He adjusts his mask, and meets her eyes through the slit. “…However hard it may be for you, sometimes you must choose violence. Sometimes there is no other way.”

Her eyes flash—with fear, with anger, with sadness, he isn’t quite sure what—and then she turns away from them all.

“…I will deliberate on this,” she says at last. “It is late; get some rest.”


	18. xviii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin wakes up to find herself with company, and together, they figure our their next steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, but damn, is school rough. (I really shouldn't be writing fic, but it's how I keep sane in stressful times.) 
> 
> been a month since the last chapter. I decided to reward you guys' wait with a Robin chapter. not my favorite one so far, but this is setup for her story in the second arc. hope you enjoy~

_first, second_ , and _third_

Robin crouched in the alley, the stench of rotting garbage filling her nostrils. The moonlight shone brightly, and she cursed it. Her hood was drawn up over her head to keep her silver-white hair from shining in the light.

The sound of footsteps came to her ears, and she shrunk back as far as she could into the garbage to hide herself.

“…the point?” the guard was saying to another. “The docks are full of our guys. We should just be able to go to the tavern.”

The pair passed in front of the opening of the alley. They slowed down to glance into the area, one of them holding out a lantern, but their eyes swept past Robin.

“You wanna waste what little coin we get?” the other grumbled as they went on. “I’ve got other people to worry about…”

Robin stayed still for a moment longer, and then drew herself slowly up out of the garbage. Her heart pounded in her chest, nearly drowning out all other sounds even though her ears strained to listen. When she heard nothing close by, she brushed off the bits of trash and gunk. Then, she turned toward the docks.

Even though she was trying to stick to the alleyways, there were still guards patrolling the border town, and Robin had to duck behind barrels or stalls, sticking to the shadows. The closer she came to the docks, the more militiamen there were.

Finally, she came to a loading area, filled with crates and boxes and slimy fishing nets. She crouched among them, peering out to check the boats in the harbor. One that was slightly bigger than the others was moored out at the end of one of the docks, but there was no plank connecting the deck to land. The Plegian flag it sported had a rip in it just big enough to be noticeable from a distance.

While she scanned the area, she checked her pockets and her bag, making sure that they were sealed completely. She was weighed down with her belongings, but at least the charms she had put on them would hold. Not for the first time, she wished there weren’t so many patrols on the land border. The town she was in was close enough to the Border Pass to cross into Ylisse, but unless the military sent you or you had special merchant visas, Plegians weren’t allowed to leave the country.

Several torches were placed around the docks to keep the area lit. The guards at their posts held lanterns. They stood in pairs or trios, and she could hear the murmur of conversation from her spot.

_Now for a distraction,_ she thought, keeping her eyes peeled for anything she could use. _Just long enough to slip into the water. The informant said there would be a ladder on the other side of the boat…_

She froze.

A pair of eyes stared back at her from the shadows of an alley at the other end of the docks.

Robin’s mouth dropped open, but the eyes blinked and then disappeared. She wasn’t even sure if they had been human ones, or if they had been real in the first place.

“What was that?!” a guard snapped, turning toward the alleyway. The others joined him, hurrying toward the area, and Robin snapped back to the present. She shook her head, trying to dispel the guilt roiling in her stomach, and she sent a wordless apology toward whatever was out there.

_Gods, I hope I’m good at swimming_ , she thought, keeping her nerves steeled as she hurried, ducking, from the crates to the water. Her mother had told her stories about the sea: _Just stay calm and you won’t drown. It’s the panic that makes you slip up._

The cold swirled around her body as she lowered herself in silently. She tried not to think about the bottomless, inky blackness beneath her. She breathed as calmly as she could, letting go of the wooden dock and floating. Her arms instinctively spread out to balance herself, and she moved them, making tiny paddling movements. The water lapped at her chin, and she took a breath of salty air through her nose.

Robin heard shouting and hurried footsteps, but none of them seemed to come close to her—though it was hard to tell with the noise of the waves lapping at her. She reached one of the poles holding up the dock and latched onto it for dear life. She held onto it for a moment before shimmying around it to stay under the dock. Then she swam toward the next pole. On and on she went, cursing how long it was taking, keeping her ears strained. The shouts had dimmed, but the words were loud, and she couldn’t make them out.

_I’m sorry,_ she thought again. All she could think was that the eyes had been real, and that she had just made a mistake, even though she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to take on all those guards and still escape. They could have chased a cat for all she knew, but the uncertainty bogged her mind.

Robin finally came to the end of the dock. The ship bobbed just ahead of her. The waves rocked it steadily, and she steeled herself before reaching out and grabbing on. She inched along the side, keeping herself as low as possible to avoid being seen. But her clothes were dark, and she was in the shadows until she came around the side, and finally, she saw the rope ladder hanging off the edge.

She grabbed the bottom rung and climbed toward Ylisse.

* * *

 

Robin opens her eyes, only to see a woman sitting across from her.

She starts, her whole body jolting. She whips her head around, finding that they’re sitting in a small clearing, surrounded by thick underbrush and tall trees. Morning sunlight filters through the leaves, and the chill of the coming fall fills the air.

“Good morning,” the stranger says flatly. Her voice is deep and almost rough, like a mutter just loud enough to be heard.

Robin blinks at the woman. Her shiny black hair and pale skin are unfamiliar, but not her dark eyes—but Robin can’t place her. Soundlessly, she watches the young woman hunch up, her gaze meeting Robin’s before darting away.

“…Good morning?” Robin says. This isn’t the first time that she’s woken up to find a stranger there with her, but in no way is she used to the feeling.

The woman glances at her again, and Robin’s blood chills.

“You were one of the assassins,” she realized. “You were the one who ran from me.”

“I’m not an assassin,” the woman mutters. “I was conscripted because I’m good with hexes is all. I don’t want your precious Exalt dead or anything. _I_ just don’t want to be dead.”

Robin’s hand goes to her pocket, finding her tome. She’s surprised it’s still there and not in the hands of the woman. “You still took part in an attempt on the Exalt’s life.”

“And I just saved yours,” the woman retorts. Her shoulders are still hunched, but her head lifts slightly. “You don’t have any food or water. I found you passed out and I had to bring you here and feed you.”

It’s then that the exhaustion in Robin’s body registers in her brain. She remembers her half-panicked flight from Ylisstol, and how she went for hours without stopping. No food, no water. She didn’t look for any, either.

“I don’t remember eating,” she says slowly.

The woman looks away. “I had to curse your body to move. You wouldn’t wake up.”

Robin shudders, at once grateful that she wasn’t awake to experience her limbs moving against her will, and disgusted that it had happened at all. “Why aren’t you cursing me now? Why didn’t you take my weapons or my money?”

“I told you.” The woman sneers. “I’m not an assassin. Or a thief. And I may enjoy hexing people, but…”

Robin waits for her to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t.

“…Then what do you want?”

She shrugs, an admirable feat for how high her shoulders are hunched “I have nowhere to go. Plegia doesn’t care about me. No one there does.”

Robin pauses. “That’s why you turned on them, then?”

“There’s nothing for me in Plegia,” she grumbles.

Neither of them speak for a minute.

“What are your plans now, then?”

“I could ask you the same thing. It looks like you had a good job there in Ylisstol.”

Robin’s chest burns and she turns away. “There’s something I have to do. I won’t be going back to Ylisstol anytime soon.” _Or at all, for that matter_.

The woman raises her head so that her eyes are just barely visible beneath the fringe of her hair. “…Can I help you, Robin?”

She stiffens. “How do you know my name?”

“I was part of an assassin group,” the woman says dryly. “Why else would I know?”

She doesn’t wait for Robin to answer before continuing: “I’ll be executed by Plegia if they catch me. And as a sorceress I’ll be shunned anywhere I go on this continent. So I may as well go with you.”

“…I don’t even know _your_ name.”

“…Tharja. There, now that you know my name, the really bad curses will work on me.”

Robin hesitates. “Why me?”

Tharja’s gaze falls to the ground. “You’re very…interesting. I could tell when we first met.”

“That doesn’t sound creepy,” Robin says flatly.

“…Let’s make a deal then, shall we?” Tharja tries to straighten up, but she still appears small. “You’re obviously in no state for travel. You must have left quickly; maybe you’re running, maybe you’re in a hurry to find whatever it is you’re looking for. I can help you find where that is, and I can also cover our tracks. Hexes are good for that.” She chuckles slightly.

Robin shifts. She can’t help but think of Chrom—she’s been trying not to, because even the image of his face in her mind makes her heart feel like it’s going to collapse in on itself. She remembers when he offered his hand to her, uncaring that she was Plegian. _He was going to trust me even after I told him I could be Grima._

She wanted to be more like him, as painful as it was to admit, as idiotic as it was. _Chrom’s a naïve fool, but still…_ There was something about the trust that he gave that made you want to believe in him, to trust him in return. She missed it terribly.

“In return for what, exactly?” she says at last.

“Mutual protection. Maybe a lock of hair…”

Robin grimaces. _I definitely can’t trust her_ too _much._ “Not the hair. I know enough about dark magic than to agree to that.”

Tharja shrugs, even though her lips pout slightly. “A smart move,” she admits. “Fine. I won’t curse you, either. Unless it’s an emergency like before.”

_A smart move? More like common sense,_ she thinks. “…I’ll offer you mutual protection. And, so long as you don’t betray me, I’ll hold true to that.”

“…Shall we make a blood pact?”

“No.”

()()()

After a short rest and a small meal, Tharja advises that they move to a new location. “We’re still well within range of Ylisstol’s pegasus knight. Even _my_ hexes aren’t perfect.”

They waste little time in moving farther west, keeping to forests and away from roads when they can. Every ten minutes or so, Tharja mutters a hex and waves her hand, marking the trail they’ve left behind. The dark mage sticks close to Robin, but she’s always a few steps behind her, and she doesn’t strike up conversations. Despite her creepiness and antisocial nature, however, Robin can’t discern anything suspicious about the way Tharja acts. She keeps her eye out, though.

Toward nightfall, they near a town. Tharja hexes their clothes to appear to the eye as simple and cheap, rather than the garb of mages. It’s not one that works for long, so they quickly move among the shops, buying food and supplies.

Tharja tugs on Robin’s sleeve. Robin turns to her, and the dark mage discretely gestures behind them. Robin pulls her hood tighter around her face and glances backward to find a pair of Ylissean guards patrolling the market.

Robin doesn’t make any sudden movements, but turns back toward Tharja. “We’ve spent all our money, haven’t we?” she lies.

“It’s getting late,” Tharja adds, nodding, and together they leave the market.

Though there’s danger of staying in the town, they quietly agree that slipping out so late might attract attention from the guards. Robin rents them a room from a cheap inn for the night. There’s only one bed in the cramped room, but it will have to make do; Robin has plenty of coin left, but there’s far more harm in wasting money than being thrifty. Still, when she sits on the hard mattress, she thinks of the plush bed in Ylisstol castle. Though her body certainly misses the luxury, her mind can’t help but recall the unrestful nights spent there.

Tharja uses her magic to light a few candles. She then paces about the room, muttering hexes, especially around the windows and the door. When she’s done, she sits on the end of the bed, wiping at her forehead. Robin reaches into their pack and produces bread and a bit of dried meat, handing Tharja her share. They eat in silence.

That is, until Tharja asks, “This thing you have to do—where is it?”

Robin closes her eyes. “…I’m looking for my mother. The last I saw her was in Plegia.”

She chances a glance at Tharja and finds that the dark mage has lifted an eyebrow. The lighting makes her countenance seem particularly dark. “Plegia?”

Robin lets out a huff of laughter, but she’s shaking her head. “Stupid, isn’t it? I tried so hard to escape from that place.”

“Me too, and I got captured,” Tharja muttered. She sighed. “Well, then. Anywhere specific? Too deep in, and I’m not all that keen on going.”

Robin grimaces. “We were just an hour’s walk northeast of the Midmire. But the last time I saw her was over two months ago. We always moved around, so she could be anywhere.”

“Have you tried scrying?”

“Scrying?” Robin shakes her head. “My mother didn’t teach me much about the darker magics.”

“Scrying is hardly dark,” Tharja scoffs. “It’s very difficult and needs specific materials, but no one gets hurt. You only need to put forth the tiniest amount of blood.”

“Then what do I need?”

“Something from the person you’re trying to scry. I like to use hair,” she says with a smile, “but it can be something they often wore, or something they have a personal attachment to. You need a medium to see through. A crystal works best, or a charmed mirror. Water works in a pinch, if you know the right incantation. And you need a prick of blood.”

Robin’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak. _Mother._

She takes a breath, realizing that she hadn’t breathed for a moment. She looks away, balling her hands into fists.

“…Well?” Tharja asks. “Do you have any of these things?”

“Y-yes,” Robin says. She pulls out her bag of tiny heroes. She hesitates, and then pulls open the drawstring to show Tharja the contents. “My mother made a lot of these. Sometimes she would get splinters making them, so a few of them have blood splatters on them.”

“Very good choice.”

Robin pulls out an archer and holds the piece out toward Tharja. There’s only a tiny red spot on the tip of his bow. “I mean, they’re really small. See?”

“That’s fine. That will intensify the link this piece has to her. You only need to offer up your own blood.” Tharja stands. “We need water, then.”

Robin nods and leaves the room with her to help procure a bucket from the inn’s closet. The bathroom has no running water; they have to go outside to a nearby pump. The innkeeper pokes her head out of the window and asks if they need help to prepare a bath, but Robin laughs and waves off the offer. They hurry back up to their room and while Robin locks the door, Tharja sets the bucket on the floor and turns to her travelling sack.

She pulls out a tome and leafs through the yellowed pages. They all contain spells written in the old Plegian tongue, and many detail magic circles that Robin has never seen before. She shudders, hoping she never has to find out what the spells detail.

“Aha,” Tharja mutters, stopping at a page. She peers at the diagram, then takes out a piece of chalk and draws on the wooden floor, keeping the bucket at the center of the circle she creates. It takes her several minutes to finish, and she makes the final touch by taking the archer piece and putting it in the center of another smaller circle connected to the larger one.

“Now then,” Tharja says, gesturing for Robin to sit on the floor in front of the circle. She sits on the other side, folding her legs beneath her neatly. “I’m going to say the spell, and you must repeat after me. You have to know who you’re looking for—you have to perfectly envision their face. By that logic, you can’t scry someone you’ve never seen.

“Though it’s not impossible, it’s also very difficult to clearly see their surroundings. You need a fair bit of magical prowess. I don’t usually have trouble myself, but…”

She shrugs, then turns back to her bag and pulls out a small knife inlaid on both sides of the handle with the eyes of Grima. Robin shudders, and Tharja lifts an eyebrow.

“Once the spell is said, you cut your finger and put blood in the water. It doesn’t have to be a lot. If you ever get a nice crystal, you probably won’t have to do this.”

Unbidden, the thought of bleeding out and being buried behind Castle Ylisstol flashes in Robin’s mind. She shakes her head to rid herself of the image. “No, no, I get it.” She reaches out and gingerly takes the knife. It’s heavier than it appears.

“It’s critical you think about your mother the whole time,” Tharja warns. “Or the picture won’t be clear.”

Robin nods and takes a breath. “Okay. I think I’m ready.”

“All right. Repeat after me.”

Tharja goes one line at a time, speaking slowly. Robin follows along flawlessly, staring at the water and thinking about her mother’s silver-white hair, the crinkled lines around her kind, brown eyes. Her matching coat.

_Shit,_ she wants to say, but Tharja speaks a bit faster now, and Robin doesn’t dare fall behind.

Finally, Tharja nods, and Robin holds her hands out over the bucket. She nicks her finger, and from the stinging cut a drop of blood falls into the water.

At once, the surface ripples. The clear water becomes opaque, and images flash across it. First, a large body of water surrounded by land; then, a peak jutting up into the sky, sitting between a sea of sand and the water—in the far distance, beyond the water, is a strip of grey.

And then, the water turns clear.

Robin blinks, and she lets out a breath. Her body is shaky, sapped of energy. Tharja passes her a piece of bread, and she immediately takes it and chews on it.

“It’s surprisingly exhausting. Forgot to mention that,” Tharja says. “…So? What did you see?”

Robin frowns. “Landmarks. Nothing else. I…remembered that she wears a spell-protected coat.”

Tharja nods. “And it may also be that the place she’s in is spell-protected, too. I set up hexes earlier to ensure that _we_ wouldn’t be scryed. It’s how monarchs and war generals avoid being spied on.”

“Ah.” Robin closes her eyes, wanting nothing more than to sleep. “I saw a lake. And a mountain, by a desert. In the distance was the Longfort, I think.”

“Northern Plegia, then. The Border Sands, by the Great Lake.”

Robin takes another bite of her bread. She swallows it with difficulty, then hands her piece back to Tharja, who handles it gingerly. Robin drags herself up onto the bed and just about collapses, uncaring of the hard mattress.

_Why, though?_ She can’t make sense of it. _Mother never brought us near any border. We never went too far north…_

Before any more questions can pass through her mind, she’s asleep.


	19. xix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmeryn comes to a decison, and Morgan and Chrom lead the Shepherds on their next journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another long time no see. still doing lead-up and all for this arc but we should be getting into more heavy stuff really soon.

_second_

The boat rocked, and Morgan wanted to vomit.

The small crew scurried about, adjusting the sails to account for the growing wind. Yarne clutched onto the railing, his face green. Nah was beside him, helping him to stand so that he wouldn’t puke on the deck. “Brady will be upset again if you vomit,” she tries to joke. “But he and Noire should be back soon with some medicine, okay?”

The winds had forced the fliers to land. Gerome was tending to the wound on Minerva’s front leg; blood still seeped through the bandage. Cynthia’s pegasus kept its head down, wingtips trailing on the floorboards. Severa, brush in hand, worked through the tangles of its mane with a silent, hard set to her eyes.

 _Is it a Justice Cabal with just two members?_ Morgan thought absently. He was still too numb to feel anything but absent.

Nevertheless, Morgan found his feet taking him toward Severa. Her snapping would set him straight, he knew. She always put him back on track, made him realize what he had to do. Other people could get annoyed with her bossy attitude, but he needed it.

Before he could come close, though, Owain came up beside her, talking too quietly to be heard. Morgan stopped, blinking, not really understanding the emotion swirling in his stomach. He decided to blame his sea legs.

“Morgan?”

He turned to find that Laurent had come up beside him. The mage had lost his glasses in their harried flight, and his squinting eyes almost made him unrecognizable.

“Come with me,” he said, but Morgan had nothing left in himself to ask why. Still, he followed, and Laurent led him below deck, to a cramped room that held maps, sextants, compasses, and a slew of other navigational items that Morgan had no words for.

“Given the circumstances, when we go back in time, I would believe it prudent to never reveal our identities to our parents—or anyone else for that matter.”

“…What?” Morgan slowly took in his words. “I…thought we said we should this time around. To save time and all if we can.”

Laurent grimaced. “If Lucina were to follow us…” He said her name gingerly, like doing so dug a thorn deep into his side. “If she revealed that you are her brother, your credibility could be ruined. If we are too late in the timeline, the fact that Robin is your mother would also complicate matters.”

Morgan felt like his stomach was being gutted. He wanted to argue, to say that Lucina would never harm him. Lucina would never harm any of them. But he had seen for himself the way she slaughtered Inigo, and Kjelle, and how she tore through Cynthia. The way her face had glowed with Grima’s power. “…She could rat me out somehow,” he said quietly.

“The more quickly you build a repertoire with your father and mother, the better chance you will have that whatever Lucina does will not affect the trust your parents will have in you.” Laurent reached up to adjust his glasses, but his hand awkwardly hung in the air when he remembered that they were gone. “Nevertheless, hide your identity. Wear a mask and shed the Grimleal coat.”

Morgan immediately wrapped his arms around himself, clutching onto the old fabric. “Never,” he snapped, well-aware that he sounded like a petulant child. It was the first time in a long time that there was so much emotion in his voice. That is, when he wasn’t screaming. “Mother put protective spells in it, anyhow. It would be stupid to get rid of it.”

“I realized that.” Laurent reached below the desk and hoisted up a bucket filled with a dark liquid. “We can change its appearance, at any rate.”

Morgan peered into the bucket. “What color is that?”

“Black. We may have to do some extra work to make it seem that your coat is of a different make than your mother’s. The cuffs should go… It may appear, er, less than fashionable by the time I am done with it, but I believe it necessary. But I will let you pick a mask, so long as it hides your eyes.”

“I…” Morgan blinked. He slowly dug into one of his pockets and pulled out the cold, blue mask that had once been his sister’s. He held it in both hands, and it seemed to stare back at him.

A shudder ran through his body, and he put the mask on the table, then piled the belongings from his pockets beside it before taking off his coat. “I’ll leave this with you. The sea is making me sick; I’m going to go lay down.”

Laurent nodded and took Morgan’s coat. “Get some rest while you can.”

* * *

 

Emmeryn calls for them early the next morning, and Morgan stumbles out of his room half-asleep. Another healer treated his wound before he retired, so he’s running on fewer hours of sleep than he would like. He slaps his cheeks, trying to wake up, but all he can think of is the time Cynthia teased him about not being able to become a functioning human being until he ate breakfast. All he’s able to snag from the breakfast table is a pastry, though, but it still helps him start to wake up.

He finds Chrom waiting outside of Emmeryn’s chambers. Compared to the night before, Chrom has more color in his cheeks and his eyes are a bit brighter. Not very much so, but it’s an improvement, and Morgan sincerely hopes that his father isn’t suffering from recent events too much.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Chrom asks.

“I’ve slept worse,” Morgan confesses. “My wound is still taking its toll.”

“You’re young,” Chrom says, and for a moment, Morgan can easily imagine that this Chrom is the older, grey-flecked man he can just barely remember in his dreams. “You’ll heal quickly.”

“I hope so,” he blurts before he can think. He hopes he didn’t sound too wary of the burning wound he received from Erebus. He tries to stand tall. “Shall we go inside?”

“Let’s,” Chrom says, and the guards open the doors to Emmeryn’s office.

The Exalt is already seated behind her desk, maps and papers neatly laid out before her. She has tied her hair back again to keep the curls—more frizzy than elegant at the moment—out of her face as she pores over the information. She is the only one in the room.

She looks up when they enter.  Morgan immediately locks into place, unable to tear himself away from her gaze or to even sit down. Chrom stands rigidly beside him as well, a hard frown forming on his lips.

Emmeryn steeples her fingers together. “All last night as I tended to Phila, I wondered: What should I do? How should I lead my people? What is needed to end the crises before us? I weighed the merits, considered the options, prayed for guidance.”

She takes a breath as if to draw strength. “There were reports in the middle of the night that the Plegian army has been mobilizing. I expect to hear word from Gangrel within the next few days. I imagine that he will ask for the Fire Emblem in exchange for a peaceful solution—that is, in the best circumstance.

“I will stand by my word and refuse to make the first strike. However, I must act somehow. I will be calling for a draft to defend our border in case our trained soldiers are depleted. If possible, I only want to defend, and not march into Plegian territory. If we are lucky, those drafted will never see true battle.”

Emmeryn closes her eyes. “I am ashamed of myself to ask this of you, Chrom.”

“Whatever you need of me, Sister, I shall do it,” Chrom says vehemently. “If it is for the good of the Halidom, I will do anything.”

She opens her eyes, and a small, somber smile spreads across her lips. “I admire the conviction with which you speak. I fear I lack that, myself.

“Chrom,” she continues, meeting his gaze head-on. “Acquiring Sable is of the utmost importance. And even I must admit…that it will not come into our hands without a fight. I want you to take the Shepherds and go beyond the border, find their forts and strongholds, and take them down. Go as you see fit. All I ask is that you do not touch citizens and their homes, nor their livelihoods. Please.”

Chrom nods at once. “I will, Sister. I promise I will.”

Morgan’s mouth falls open, and it takes him a moment to speak. “But Emm—Your Grace—how do you expect us to hold onto those bases without the help of the army? Taking these places out with the Shepherds is feasible, but _keeping_ them just isn’t possible with so few people.”

Emmeryn turns her eyes to him, but she shakes her head. “I will not march unless there is no other choice. That is why your mission is so dangerous and so vital. And that is why I want you, Mark, to be the tactician for this task.”

His hands ball into fists. His arms shake. “Are you still so averse to war that you would risk your family and people just to not cross a border? What happens if Plegia overwhelms our soldiers and we’re forced to move the line back? Nothing will stop the Mad King from ordering the slaughter of our villages! You—!”

“Mark!” Chrom snaps, holding out his arm to bar Morgan from stepping forward. “Stop!”

Ice freezes his veins, and Morgan realizes himself. Emmeryn stares calmly straight back at him, and he looks away, shamed. “…My sincerest apologies,” he murmurs. “I lost myself.”

“Mark,” she says, and her voice reminds him of his mother when she would rebuke him. He turns back to her, barely able to keep her gaze. “I will not concede to your demand unless the tide of war dictates that I have no other choice. I _will_ hold the line. I _will_ order my people to fight for the protection of the Halidom. But you and Chrom will fight for the protection of not just the Halidom, but the continent, and the world. This is a matter that I can only trust to you two. I believe that the two of you can achieve anything. So, please: Will you become Chrom’s tactician for this task?”

Morgan glances toward his father. He cannot read the look in Chrom’s eyes, but then, slowly, his father nods, and then Morgan turns back toward Emmeryn. Her normally soft eyes are as hard as stone, and he knows that there is no way he can convince her to change her strategy.

 _Then I’ll just have to do it for her and keep the Shepherds alive._ “I will.”

Emmeryn nods. “Thank you.

“There is little time. I would like you to leave before midday. Chrom, bring Gaius and Panne with you—I am sure they will be useful. I will also be assigning Cordelia to the Shepherds as well; you would do well with another pegasus rider.”

Chrom nods. “What about Lissa?”

Emmeryn’s lips press into a thin line. “I will have her stay. Take Libra instead—he is invaluable as a combatant and as a healer.”

“Understood.” Chrom turns to Mark. “Let’s go prepare.”

“All right,” Morgan agrees. He bows his head to Emmeryn, then follows his father out into the hall.

“That was quite the outburst,” Chrom says as they walk.

Morgan grimaces. “I did not intend for that.”

“It was rather impulsive. Honestly, if I had thought that far ahead, I may have argued with my sister similarly. Were I a bit younger, I think.”

Morgan’s muscles relax. It warms him to hear his father talk about how alike they are. “You would?”

“Maybe.” Then, Chrom’s voice goes hard as he stares ahead. “I will warn you though, Mark: If you speak in such a way to my sister—either of them—again, you will have to answer to me.”

His heart fails to beat for a moment. “U-understood.”

()()()

Each Shepherd is assigned a steed for the journey, if they did not have one before. Morgan quickly decides that a wagon for supplies will slow down their trek too much, so he orders the Shepherds to limit what they bring to only what will fit in saddlebags and travel packs. They watch him curiously as he stands in front of them with Chrom, listing what order they should ride in and who they should stick with in cases of emergency and the like. It is obvious that they are thrown off by the proverbial hippogriff in the room, but Morgan doesn’t know what to say about it.

When the orders have been given, the Shepherds start to disperse. Morgan turns to head back to his room—Libra wants to give him another healing session before they set off—but then, a voice calls out.

“Hey, is it true?”

“Vaike, shush!” someone hisses, but Morgan turns around anyway.

Vaike walks out in front of the other Shepherds, and his lips turn down in a puzzled frown. “Did Robin really leave?”

Morgan’s mouth opens, but he can’t answer.

Chrom takes a breath and steps forward. “Yes. Robin left. After our previous battle, she confided to me that she did not feel she would be able to fulfill her role as tactician. She did not want to cause a stir, so she left without saying anything.”

“That’s bull!” Vaike says at once. “She was the best traction we ever had!”

“Tactician,” Miriel corrects, but Vaike either ignores her or doesn’t hear.

“I agree,” Stahl says, stepping forward as well. “There was nothing she couldn’t do.”

Sully puts her hands on her hips. “Damn right. She can’t go chickening out now!”

“Robin is long gone by now,” Chrom argues. His arms cross. “And it is anyone’s decision to leave the Shepherds. This is a voluntary group, not anything else. I may have asked her to join—I may have asked all of you to join—but it is every Shepherd’s decision every morning to wake up and stand as a part of this team. There is no shame upon anyone for leaving. Do you understand?”

Sumia and Stahl and a few others nod, but Vaike still stands his ground. “I heard some chickenshit saying that she left because she changed sides That ain’t true, right?”

Chrom doesn’t move, but Morgan can see how his hand grips his own arm tightly. “Preposterous,” the prince snaps. “Robin was never secretive about her heritage. She was as loyal to this group while she was here as everyone else. What—do you think she was a spy?”

“It was some douche of a soldier,” Sully says. “And others, too.”

Without realizing it, Morgan’s feet take him forward. “If they think Robin would sell out the Shepherds, they’re wrong,” he snaps. “Whatever her reason for leaving, it could never be that. She is not that type of person. I can only hope to be half the tactician for you as she was, and I will do my best to make that happen.”

Too angry to listen to another word, he whirls around and leaves.

()()()

They leave just under two hours later, after eating. Emmeryn sees them off at the castle gates, her face stoic as she watches them leave. Before crossing the threshold of the gates, Morgan turns around in his saddle to look at her. She nods and mouths something to him, and even without hearing her words, he knows what they are. He nods in return and turns forward, squaring his shoulders. He wonders how long it will be before he sees his aunt again.

Frederick takes the forefront, followed by Chrom and Morgan. Behind them are Sully and Vaike, Libra and Virion with Gaius, Lon'qu and Olivia, Miriel and Stahl, and Kellam takes the rear with Panne, who absolutely refuses to sit on a horse even if she isn’t holding the reins. Sumia and Cordelia take to the air to scout ahead.

Morgan lifts his head toward the blue sky, sending a prayer toward Naga and his fallen friends and family. _Please, give me the strength to take her place. Give me the strength to see this through._

The wind, just brisk enough to mark the coming of fall, blows through his hair, and he swears he can hear Emmeryn’s words again.

_Thank you, Morgan._

()()()

At sunset, when they set up camp, the strong flapping of wings sounds overhead outside of the command tent.

“Prince Chrom!” Cordelia calls out. “There’s something you have to see, I’m afraid.”

Chrom frowns at Morgan over the map they were studying, and together they come out into the open air. Cordelia’s pegasus is staying airborne, as there is little room next to the command tent to alight; the mount’s wings create strong gusts of wind that threaten to blow over a nearby tent that Kellam is setting up.

“Could you move away a little, please?” he calls, but Cordelia doesn’t hear him.

“What is it, Cordelia?” Chrom asks, putting his hands on his hips. Nothing about her countenance spells something grim, like the appearance of Risen or other enemies, so his shoulders stay relaxed.

“Look who I found while on patrol,” she says, pointing back toward the path they had taken into the field. Chrom and Morgan turn, and Morgan barely holds back a genuine laugh.

Crammed onto one poor horse are Lissa, Maribelle, and Ricken, in that order; Maribelle keeping her arms around Lissa to hold onto the reins, and probably to keep Ricken from touching her precious friend. Ricken leans back as far as he can without falling backward off the horse, his nose scrunched like some hideous smell is assailing his nose. Lissa scratches her cheek and waves, feigning a casual air.

“Hey, Chrom,” she calls. “You, um, forgot some staves!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emmeryn was tricky to write in this chapter because she's peaceful to a fault but doing her best to do what she thinks is best. where it will get her, well, we just don't know, do we? but I don't think we'll be hearing from her for awhile.
> 
> as a side-note, the next chapter may include lore from Shadows of Valentia, so this is your last real warning about that. (go play the game man it's great)
> 
> edit: Forgot to add in Lon'qu and Olivia in the lineup of people going to Plegia. They've been included now.


	20. xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina continues on with her plans, and suddenly shows odd symptoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this, I update only days later??? (this is literally just how I take the stress out of finals). I'm pretty sure the only reason this part has come out so quickly is because Lucina's chapters right now are pretty short.
> 
> final notice that SoV postgame spoilers are abound. I'll go into more detail at the end of the chapter notes.

_???_

She remembered being powerless. Nothing more than a worm, groping about for sustenance. Aware of light and sound, but not of their meanings.

Lucina remembered these things, but she had never experienced them herself.

A deep hatred swirled in her heart. Her body radiated heat, but she felt cold, like ice. From the moment she could conceive of the world around her, she twisted and writhed about, wanting nothing more than to purge the light. She could feel the power to do so within her, but she couldn’t grasp it.

Until, finally, she felt a warm liquid splash upon her small body, infusing into her. And it felt _perfect_.

* * *

 

Hot blood splatters onto Erebus, and the dark blade shines in the light of the setting sun.

The priest gasps, but to his credit, he doesn’t clutch at his chest where his life is spilling away. He falls to his knees, onto the sigil which he and his brethren so painstakingly carved out all afternoon from the rock. The Mark of Grima glows where the blood runs, soaking up the magic from the priest’s life and the incantations of those around them.

Lucina doesn’t watch the man’s spasms as he leaves this life for the next. Rather, she keeps her gaze on the way his hot blood pours from his chest and cools on the stone sigil. Human life is imperfect and horrid, but blood is mankind’s only beautiful possession.

The priest collapses on his side, now a corpse. Lucina waves her hand and walks away. Henry reaches out with the other priests and they murmur incantations. Slowly, the cadaver dissipates into ash, and the mages set to disguising the area with hexes.

She moves to their campsite, merely a stone’s throw away. The horses shift and stomp their hooves, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood despite their training not just for travel, but for war. How pitiful that such simple-minded creatures can’t understand anything.

Lucina ducks into her tent and checks the map lain out on her bedroll. Drawn in pencil over the continent is the Mark of Grima, the six eyes of the dragon circled around various points. The next location is in the remote mountains of Regna Ferox, north of the arena. It will take days upon days to reach that point.

“Milady?” comes Henry’s squeaky voice.

“Come in,” she says, sitting down and crossing her legs.

The dark mage comes through the tent flap. Without asking, he sits beside her—not too close—and his familiar grin sets her at ease.

She crosses her legs beneath her and lays Erebus across her lap. The black-and-gold blade shimmers, the blood on it shining even in the dim light.

“Aw, don’t clean it up,” Henry says when she pulls out a cloth. “It looks so pretty like that.”

“It could get rusted,” Lucina says, but she doubts her words. She has far more conviction in her next ones. “Besides, surely Erebus would enjoy the feeling of fresh blood along its blade after being cleaned.”

She can _feel_ the sword almost vibrate in her hands as she wipes it down. She takes extra care to pull out a clean cloth to polish it. The hilt and the razor-sharp edges exude a power that even she cannot describe.

“Where did you get it?”

“Grima’s Avatar, of course.” Lucina doesn’t look up; his question was rather stupid, but nothing worth a beating. _Just wait a little longer,_ she says silently to her blade as she continues to care for it. _There will be more for you soon._

“That’s so cool,” Henry giggles. “Just for you?”

“It was used a thousand years ago, Mother said. By the previous Avatar.”

Henry shrugs. “Dunno about it. There isn’t anything about it in the Scripture.”

She snickers. “Events were so chaotic a thousand years ago; I highly doubt the Scripture holds all. You can’t trust everything from books, nor the events they leave out.” How could you truly know anything unless you lived it? That was how the previous Lucina learned of suffering and war and the need to obliterate.

She holds Erebus out for Henry to see. “This was made using the Fell Dragon’s fang.”

Lucina blinks, and for a moment, something is different. Like a flash, the sword in her hand is not Erebus, and the man before her is not Henry. And then her abdomen pangs, like she’s been pierced by a poisoned arrow, and she doubles over, pressing a hand to her stomach.

“E-eh?!” Henry says, taken aback. “You all right?”

There’s a pain in her chest and she doesn’t understand it. She clamps her mouth shut but she can hear a scream in her ears and she can’t figure out whose it is. She thinks she hears a name, but she can’t make out the syllables and the sounds and it makes no sense—

A sharp, burning bite digs into the skin of her hand, and she returns to the present, rooted to the sand beneath her. Grima’s chosen envoy, she remembers. _That’s who I am._

Lucina breathes in and the metallic scent of blood fills her nostrils. She unwraps her hand from around Erebus’s blade and stares at her fingers and palm; they are cut open and bleeding.

“Let me get—”

“Don’t bother,” Lucina says before Henry can move. She flexes her hand, and her skin itches and burns as it knits back together with the power of the souls in her veins. She grimaces when it takes a few extra moments than she expected. She puts Erebus down and grasps her bloody hand, pressing the areas which were just open and raw. They are only slightly sensitive, but the fact doesn’t help her relax.

“…Milady?” Henry asks after a moment.

“Leave,” she snaps suddenly. “I wish to rest.”

“If you’re sure,” Henry sings, but even so, he doesn’t sound as chipper as usual. He glances back as he leaves, but she stares down at Erebus in her lap, its blade bloodied once again.

After a while, she crawls onto her bedroll, not bothering to clean the sword. She curls up on her side, her bloodied fingers grasped around Erebus’s hilt. She closes her eyes, and she can almost hear whispers swirling through her bloodstream, coming from her hand. Maybe if she focuses on that, the roaring that was in her head won’t come back.

Lucina’s breathing deepens, and for the first time, Erebus gives her dreams.

()()()

_“Master Grima, it is beautiful.”_

_“Would a fang of mine I fashioned be ugly?” the dragon retorts sharply, and the man stammers, but Grima continues on. “However, it is not finished.”_

_“How so?”_

_The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through a window high above. Grima, scaly and menacing but far smaller than the one Lucina knows, is curled up in the space near the wall. Its red eyes glow ominously in the shadows, just barely illuminating the man who kneels before it._

_“I have laid a curse upon it,” Grima explains, its tail sweeping outward and flourishing over the blade in the man’s hands. “Erebus will always thirst for blood. But the very first blow you make with this sword—do not make that decision lightly. You will understand.”_

_The man bows his head. “Of course.”_

_Grima raises its head high, its jaws falling open to reveal its teeth. Each one is as long as a sword and purple-black. “I have given you more strength than you could possibly imagine, in your blood and in that sword. Do not fail me.”_

_“You have my word, Master Grima, that the faith you have placed in me will not be squandered. This war will be won by my hand.”_

_The dragon barks with something akin to laughter, and the sound shakes the very air._

()()()

The morning light filtering through Lucina’s tent slowly wakes her. She finds herself in the same position she was in when she fell asleep, sword in her hand. The black blade is clean; there isn’t even a spot of dried blood encrusted upon it.

Lucina sits up, pulling the blade into her lap and runs her finger along the flat of it. After a moment, she finds Erebus’s scabbard and sheathes the weapon.

She quickly packs the few belongings she has and rolls up her bedroll. She takes the map and heads outside. Henry and the entourage are seated around a small campfire, serving breakfast. Aside from Henry, the mages all hurry to their feet and bow to her as she approaches.

“Porridge!” Henry says cheerily, handing her a bowl.

“M-milady,” one of the mages says hurriedly. “I apologize for there not being anything better to eat—”

“Be quiet,” she snaps, glaring at him, and the man immediately goes silent. Henry hands her a spoon and she takes it before eating, not even bothering to sit down. After she takes a bite, she hands the map to the navigator. “How do we get into Regna Ferox?”

“We have two options,” he says. Lucina is happy to hear that his voice doesn’t waver as much as the other man’s. “There is the Crow River, which goes through the Carrion Inlet and runs under the Longfort. But the defenses there are heavy, and the passage is impassable because of a gate. Only the Feroxians can raise and lower it. The other option is to sail around Carrion Isle and make for any land south of Port Ferox.”

“Ooh, I vote for Crow River.”

“Which would take longer?” Lucina asks, ignoring Henry.

“Well, sailing—”

“Then we’ll launch an attack on the Longfort,” Lucina says. “It must be swift and decisive. We need enough time to get through and mask our trail.”

The navigator opens his mouth, but then thinks better of it and stays silent, only nodding.

“We only have so much time,” Lucina continues. “Our other group will throw the Ylisseans off-course if they manage to break the line and get into Plegia, but these sigils need to be put down as soon as possible. The massive scale we are working on leaves no room for error or time-wasting.”

She glances toward the sun; it has just barely begun rising over the eastern horizon. “Start packing the horses. We set out in ten minutes.”

The mages scramble back toward their tents, taking them down and putting them away. Lucina quickly finishes her share of porridge and shoves the bowl back into Henry’s hands. “Don’t dally, Henry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it~!” he chimes before hurrying off.

Lucina puts a hand on Erebus’s hilt and watches for just a moment as her men hurry about. Her hand twitches, but she pushes the sensation away and turns to finish cleaning up camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "???" marked section is, of course, Grima's beginnings in Forneus's test tubes/lab/whatever. Because Lucina is a facet of Grima, some of those memories were shared. She may or may not have memories of all of those occurrences. 
> 
> The second memory in the chapter--the dream sequence--comes entirely from my headcanons of one thousand years ago when Grima first turned its power upon the continent. They will feature more later, along with more about Erebus. You're not getting more out of me than this, though.


	21. xxi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Tharja decide on a plan to get across the Great Lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait. I've been pulled into other fandoms... (I never thought I'd like yugioh this much. Anyway.)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Allusions to rape (without explicitly stating so; in the context of war); violence; mentions of corpses; near-puking.
> 
> Also, for sake of future warnings--please let me know what you consider to be good warnings and what would not be. For example, considering the sheer amount of violence in this fic in general, I'm unsure whether I should still be providing warnings for it.

_first, second,_ and _third_

It was a hazy dream. Sometimes it would come up in Robin’s unconscious, manifesting on the nights before or after a particularly abrupt move, and Morgana would always comment the next morning about how Robin tossed and turned all night. Robin always wondered if she whimpered in her sleep.

The dream made her feel like a child—that she was small, simple, helpless. Always, her mother was in it, carrying her down a long, dark hallway, whispering to Robin to keep quiet. Torches flickered, casting patterns of shadows on the ceiling, and Robin recalled some of them looking like thin hands with long, sharp-nailed fingers.

Sometimes in the dream she heard voices, or footsteps that weren’t her mother’s. But she didn’t see anyone clearly; at most she only caught glimpses out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t understand why she had to be quiet, or why she knew the people following them were bad.

She understood once she became older—their pursuers were Grimleal. There was no other possibility.

In one dream, however—and only one dream, which Robin remembers to this day even though she can’t recall when she had it—she does see one face.

A young girl with soft, brown skin, and hair as platinum as a beam of sunlight shining through dust. Her lips curled back in a snarl, but her dark eyes shining with an empty light.

()()()

Robin and Tharja quietly leave the village early the next morning and head northward. The trails turn steep and the woods grow even thicker. While the travel is hard, going anywhere else risks putting them on a public road, and since they’re already so close to the Border Pass, it’s likely they’ll be spotted. But the few days’ worth of travel to get to the Ylissean edge of the Great Lake pass by without incident, and they reach the shore around midday.

“There’s no way we can cross it in the daytime,” Robin says with a sigh, sitting down and leaning against a thick tree. The roots sit on a small bit of elevated land, and she can see clear across the lake, the waves choppy and white-capped from the wind. She can just make out the grey strip in the distance that marks the Longfort.

“What, you want to get on a raft and go?” Tharja asks harshly. “Even at night, we’d be easy prey. The pegasus knights and the wyvern squads both fly over this thing all the time.”

“Of course not,” Robin says with a snort. “We’d be sitting hippogriffs. Even using a wind tome to go faster still runs the risk of us being seen. No, we’ll have to get help from a fishing village, and then swim to shore.”

“I can’t swim,” Tharja mutters.

“Neither can I. Well, I never learned. I can float, though.”

Tharja crosses her arms. “I’d rather take the raft.”

“We can’t walk around. There’s too much open area on the Plegian side, and the Feroxi will be suspicious if they see us so close to the Longfort.”

Tharja only sighs, looking away.

“Well?” Robin prods. “What do you propose we do?”

“Leave.” Tharja pauses and her shoulders hunch up once again. “Although… We did come all the way here. You won’t catch me swimming…but I’d rather we had the extra protection of a proper boat. If not, the raft is the better option to walking around.”

“All right.” Robin stands and pats the dirt off her pants. “Let’s go a little more north; there should be a gulf there with a town or two.”

They continue on, careful not to walk out onto the open beach. They stick nearby, though, and watch the sky for any sign of aerial units. They spot two squadrons of wyvern riders, but only one group of pegasus knights, and a rather small one at that. Robin grimaces, remembering just how many pegasus riders Lucina took out almost single-handedly.

She quickly pushes the thought of Lucina away.

After about an hour, they come upon a trail leading into a small village set not very far from the shore. A rather impressive set of docks juts out into the water, anchoring fishing boats.  Only a couple of the boats are larger, fit for longer voyages.

Tharja ensures that their cloaks are charmed to appear as typical travelers’ capes once more, and then they come into the town circle. The most impressive part of the marketplace is the fish stall, and only a couple other stalls sell a small assortment of fruits and vegetables. One building stands to the side, a somewhat faded sign proclaiming it as the local inn and bar.

Figuring that it would be best to start closer to the docks, Robin heads over to the fish stall. A grizzled middle-aged man is inspecting his wares, which, given that it’s so late in the day, are few.

He looks up as they approach, and he eyes them. “Not from around here, huh? Traveling?”

“Yes, actually,” Robin says warmly. She looks around. “This is quite the nice little town.”

“Used to be bigger.” He shrugs. “Fish is freshest in the mornin’, by the by. Best to stay the night and buy tomorrow.”

“I’ll take your word for it!” Robin smiles. “But actually…we’re in the market for a boat and a captain. Can you point us in the right direction?”

He frowns. “Where to?”

She lowers her voice. “Plegia’s Border Sands. At least, just close—”

“Ah.” He scowls, glancing at Tharja’s pale hands, and then to Robin’s darker face. “Like hell.”

“Just say it,” Tharja mutters, but thankfully the man doesn’t hear.

“I’m willing to pay up front,” Robin says, shaking her coat pocket so her coins jingle against each other.

He crosses his arms. “You bandits have raided this town one too many times. Ain’t no way anyone here’ll take you anywhere.”

“We’re refugees. I had to leave my mother behind—”

“If you want to go back so badly, go down to the Border Pass and ask _them_ to let you through. You’d best get out of here before I make you.”

Robin backs up and bows her head. “Thank you, regardless.” She turns, and Tharja levels a glare at the man before following closely.

“I thought that would happen,” Robin admits. “But it was worth a shot.”

“I could hex him,” Tharja offers, but Robin shakes her head.

“Let’s try the inn, just to make sure.”

The cramped bar is still rather empty, but older fishermen are already drinking. Robin takes the lead and asks them for passage, but she’s met with much of the same refusals. The bartender—not the least bit drunk, like her clients—shakes her head with a small, sympathetic frown.

“You definitely won’t get what you’re looking for here,” she says, but at least she isn’t spitting at them. “Even the village north of here—there’re more half-Plegians there than here—won’t have anyone willing to go so far toward Plegia, even if they think you’re trustworthy.”

Dismayed, Robin thanks her, and she and Tharja leave the village back toward the south. After about half an hour, they set up camp for the night, and Robin sighs, laying down and staring up at the stars through the treetops. Something the woman said nags at her mind.

“Even half-Plegians?” she murmurs.

Tharja, who’s looking through one of her tomes by candlelight, glances upward with just her eyes. “Think about it this way: How likely do you think it is that the half-Ylisseans on the Plegian side of the border would help a Ylissean?”

“I’ve never met anyone who’s half,” Robin admits, although she knows the number must be high. The war twenty years ago resulted in many people around her age who aren’t all too keen on revealing their parentage. “Not knowingly, anyway. Mother never took me near to the border.”

“I’m half,” Tharja says, as blunt as ever. She turns her eyes back to her tome. “Coupled with despising the sunlight, I hardly seem Plegian, other than my clothes. Well, the accent, too.” She pauses. “And the dark magic.”

Robin sits up. She opens her mouth, but can’t find anything to say. Finally, after several minutes of watching Tharja leaf through the pages, she says: “Are you looking for something?”

“I’ve _found_ something.” Tharja holds her tome open and turns it around to show Robin. “A stronger concealing hex. A bit costly, but if you’re good with a wind tome, we should be able to make it across the lake in one night without being seen.”

Robin smiles, excited—but then her mood plummets. “What do you mean by ‘a bit costly’…?”

()()()

Robin spends the next day gathering wood for the raft, while Tharja prepares materials for the hex. Around midday, all they need are a sail and a few extra ingredients, so they conceal the raft in the undergrowth, cast a protection hex, and head north toward town.

When they reach the trail that leads into the town, Robin stops and holds out her hand to halt Tharja. She puts her finger to her lips, and she strains her ears to listen.

Tharja exchanges a look with her. “The middle of the day, and bandits?”

And that is just what they hear—scuffles, yells, and screams, the sounds of people being attacked. “Come on,” Robin says before breaking out into a run to reach the village.

A group of muscled men wielding axes and swords knocks over stalls and rams up against doors, trying to get inside. Some villagers fight against them, throwing fishing nets over their arms and jabbing with lances. However, their lack of formal training is apparent: Many are weakened, and bleeding from several places.

Robin reaches into her pocket to grab her tome, and she extends her hand to shoot a blast of electricity at a bandit trying to force his way into a house. He jolts and turns around immediately, yelling an expletive that is _very_ Plegian, and rushes toward her with his axe brandished. Before he can go more than a few steps, another burst of elthunder hits him in the side, and he falls to the ground. Tharja runs up to Robin’s side, holding her tome in one hand.

“For someone trying to stay unseen, you sure are reckless,” Tharja growls, tossing another spell, this time a cluster of the bandits. “It’s a good thing they’re nobodies.”

“Very true,” Robin says, unable to keep from grinning. “Let’s hurry this up. Stay by my side.”

Tharja does just so, watching Robin’s back as they fight. For the veteran mages, the bandits are hardly anything special, and it takes mere minutes to take them out; Robin doesn’t even need to draw her sword.

When the battle is over, Robin pockets her tome, but Tharja, her sharp eyes on the villagers, doesn’t. The townspeople inch out from their hiding places, wary, and Robin tries not to let her shoulders fall.

“You’re the ones from yesterday.” It’s the grizzled older man, a bloodied fishing lance in his hand. He points at them. “What’re you doin’ back here?”

“Oh, Naga, Norm,” cries out a woman, and Robin sees the barkeep emerging from the inn. “They just saved us; you should thank `em. No one’s dead, are they?”

What follows are several minutes of the villagers gathering together and taking stock of themselves; the more able-bodied ones round up the bandits, piling the corpses together and tying up the ones still alive. Robin moves to help, but Tharja grabs her wrist and shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

The barkeep comes up to them and reaches out to shake Robin’s hands; she does the same to Tharja, and Robin glares at the sorceress until she reluctantly holds out her hands to accept the gesture.

“Thank you so much,” the woman says. “I really want to do something in return—I can try to convince my husband to take you across the water.”

Robin shares a look with Tharja, and then shakes her head. “We’re very close to procuring our own way across; and after considering all the options, I would rather not risk your village any more than it already is. I’ve heard that the bandits crossing over from Plegia have been coming more and more often as of late.”

The woman nods. “That they are, dearie. Well, then—there must be a reason you came into town. Name it, and you’ve got it.”

“I can pay, honestly—” Robin starts, but Tharja elbows her in the side.

“A sail, for one,” she says. “And do you have an apothecary?”

()()()

The barkeep makes them stay for a free lunch—the fish really is fresh and delicious, especially considering that Robin can only compare it to the time she crossed the southern inlet into Ylisse, and all the food had a salty tang to it. During the meal, however, the other customers at the inn eye them with a mixture of wariness and awe, and Robin tries to keep herself from squirming under their gazes. Tharja seems to remain unfazed, or at the very least, she remains stoically fixed upon her food.

The barkeep and a few other villagers see them off as far as the woods, and Robin waves back to them as she and Tharja head down the trail. Tharja immediately starts muttering curses to prevent them from being followed, and Robin sighs, but chooses not to comment.

When they return to their campsite, they turn to their respective tasks. Robin finishes the raft relatively quickly, and she lays down to rest for a while. Tharja continues to work on her hex, muttering under her breath and crushing the materials together.

()()()

Robin didn’t notice falling asleep, but when she awakens, the sun is setting behind the opposite side of the lake. She sits up, looking around, and finds Tharja spreading a blackish-green substance on the raft’s mast. Her left palm is wrapped in a bandage.

“The poultice in that bowl,” Tharja says with only a glance in her direction. “Make sure to eat half of it before we head out. It should last most of the night.”

Robin turns and finds a small bowl laying on the ground, nestled among the moss and roots of a tree. She picks it up and peers at the damp mush, then makes a face—it reminds her strongly of half-chewed leaves, and it smells metallic.

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

Robin sighs and stands, deciding to take her mind off the strange substance by preparing a quick stew of fish and potatoes that the barkeep gave them. By the time that it’s done, the sun is gone, only leaving behind an orange-purple light off to the west.

“You should probably eat the poultice first,” Tharja recommends, scooping her half of the mixture into a bowl before handing it ot Robin. “The taste might make you vomit up dinner.”

Robin grimaces, but pinches her nose and shovels the mixture into her mouth. At first, it tastes like nothing, but then all at once, the sharp tang of metal assails her tongue. She gags, but covers her mouth with her hands, keeping herself from spitting it out. Hurriedly, she swallows, forcing it all down her throat. She scrambles to scoop the stew into a bowl, and even though it’s still scalding, she eats to try to get rid of the taste.

“That was close,” Tharja comments, and Robin glares at her.

When they’re finished—and it’s apparent that Robin isn’t going to puke—they clean up camp as quickly as possible and pull the raft out onto the shoreline, checking for aerial patrols as they do so. Tharja sits at the head of the raft, already muttering curse after curse to enhance the effect of her curse. Robin sits at the back and pulls out her wind tome.

She pushes the raft into the shallows, testing its bourancy and balance. When it seems that nothing is amiss, they set off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that this isn't my favorite chapter to put it lightly, but I really wanted to put these world-building ideas in here without having to stick them in other places. Originally this chapter was also going to be longer, but then I realized it would have been too long for my liking. We'll come back to Robin in a bit.
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you liked, even what you didn't like. Reviews keep me going!


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